VEILS 
ISIS 


HARRI S  | 


m 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


s 


THE  VEILS  OF  ISIS 
FRANK    HARRIS 


THE  VEILS  OF  ISIS 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

FRANK  HARRIS 

Author  of  "The  Bomb,"  "Montes,  the  Matador," 
"Unpath'd  Waters,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Veils  of  Isis 9 

The  Yellow  Ticket 27 

The  Ugly  Duckling 49 

A  Daughter  of  Eve 79 

Isaac  and  Rebecca 149 

A  French  Artist 185 

A  Fool's  Paradise 217 

Within  the  Shadow 241 

A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 267 

A  Prostitute  ..........  285 

The  Kiss"     ...       k        ....  301 


H 


.  .JO 


The  Veils  of  Isis 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  second  dynasty  a 
youth  whom  his  father  and  mother  had 
named  Amanthes  came  to  manhood  near  the  village 
of  Assouan  on  the  Nile.  From  childhood  on  he  had 
been  self-willed  and  passionate  beyond  the  ordi- 
nary, and  growing  in  boldness  and  intelligence  he 
took  the  lead  of  the  other  young  men.  Because  of 
his  superiority  his  father  and  mother,  though  poor 
cultivators,  were  persuaded  to  devote  him  to  the 
priesthood.  And  as  the  young  man  was  nothing  loath 
they  took  him  one  day  to  the  Temple  of  Osiris.  The 
Chief  Priest  received  them  with  kindness,  for  the 
youth's  promise  had  been  noised  abroad  and  he 
spoke  to  them  warmly  in  favor  of  the  God  whom 
he  worshiped  and  His  divine  mission:  he  told  them 
how  Osiris  had  come  down  from  Heaven  to  help 
men  and  had  suffered  Death  for  their  sakes  through 
the  Powers  of  Darkness.  With  tears  in  his  eyes  he 
told  of  the  resurrection  of  the  God  and  how  at  the 
last  He  should  judge  the  dead. 

9 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Scarcely  had  he  finished  when  Amanthes  cried : 

"Can  a  God  be  defeated?  Why  didn't  Osiris 
conquer  the  Darkness?"  and  other  such  things. 

And  when  his  father  and  mother,  terrified  by  his 
boldness,  tried  to  restrain  him,  for  the  Chief  Priest 
held  up  his  hands  in  deprecation,  Amanthes  went 
on  stoutly: 

"I  can't  adore  a  God  who  accepts  defeat;  and  I 
don't  fear  judge  or  judgment.  I  want  to  worship 
Isis,  the  woman-goddess,  the  giver  of  life,  for  her 
creed  of  joy  and  hope  and  love  must  last  as  long 
as  the  earth  lasts  and  the  sun  gives  light." 

The  Chief  Priest  pointed  out  that  the  temples  to 
Osiris  were  larger  and  more  important  than  any 
other,  and  the  service  of  the  God  was  nobler  and 
more  highly  rewarded,  but  Amanthes  would  not  be 
persuaded,  insisting  that  the  only  divinity  he  could 
worship  was  Isis,  to  whose  service  he  was  willing 
to  devote  himself  night  and  day  with  all  his  heart. 

Impressed  by  his  earnestness  and  enthusiasm,  the 
Chief  Priest  at  length  decided  that  it  might  be  as 
well  if  Amanthes  went  down  the  river  to  Memphis 
to  the  great  Temple  of  Isis,  and  as  the  young  man 
took  fire  at  the  suggestion  he  offered  to  give  him 
letters  to  the  High  Priest  which  would  insure  his 
being  accepted,  and  he  excused  himself  afterward 
10 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

for  this  weakness  by  saying  that  he  had  never  met 
so  eloquent  a  youth  or  so  sincere  a  calling.  Aman- 
thes,  he  said,  seemed  careless  about  everything  else, 
but  the  moment  the  name  of  Isis  was  mentioned  his 
eyes  glowed,  his  face  became  intense,  and  it  really 
looked  as  if  the  youth  were  inspired. 

Ten  days  later  Amanthes  journeyed  down  the 
river  to  Memphis,  and  presented  himself  before 
the  authorities  of  the  Temple  of  Isis.  But  here  his 
passion  carried  little  persuasion,  and  at  first  it 
seemed  as  if  his  desire  would  be  thwarted.  The 
High  Priest  read  the  letter  of  his  colleague  and, 
after  one  glance  at  Amanthes,  proposed  to  engage 
him  as  a  servitor  in  the  Temple,  but  thought  it 
right,  at  the  same  time,  to  warn  him  that  only  the 
best  and  noblest  were  selected  to  wait  on  the  God- 
dess herself,  and  that  before  one  could  hope  to  enter 
her  immediate  Presence  one  must  have  spent  half 
a  lifetime  in  the  temple. 

"It  took  me,"  he  said,  "nearly  five  years  to  learn 
the  routine  of  the  service." 

Amanthes  listened  with  wide  eyes  and  bowed  in 
silence  to  the  High  Priest's  decision,  but  from  the 
very  day  he  entered  the  temple  he  set  himself  to 
learn  all  the  ritual  and  ceremonial  forms,  and  de- 
voted himself  with  such  passion  to  whatever  was 

II 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

given  to  him  to  do  that  he  became  a  marked  man 
among  the  younger  priests. 

Though  he  held  himself  aloof  from  all  his  com- 
rades, he  was  not  much  disliked  by  them,  for  when- 
ever his  father  and  mother  sent  him  presents  of 
dates  or  dainties  he  shared  them  out  among  the 
others,  contenting  himself  always  with  the  simple 
sustenance  provided  in  the  Temple. 

To  his  father  and  mother  he  wrote  but  once,  tell- 
ing them  to  look  upon  him  as  dead,  for  he  had  given 
himself  to  the  service  of  the  Goddess  with  heart 
and  life  and  for  him  there  was  no  looking  back. 

A  few  months  after  his  admission  to  the  Temple, 
Amanthes  took  a  chance  opportunity  and  begged  the 
High  Priest  to  enroll  him  among  the  immediate 
servants  of  the  Goddess. 

"I  know  all  the  forms  and  ceremonies  by  heart," 
he  said,  "and  am  eager  now  to  learn  the  will  of  the 
Goddess  herself." 

The  High  Priest  was  greatly  astonished;  but 
though  he  found  by  examining  the  young  man  that 
he  was  indeed  a  master  of  all  the  services,  he  would 
not  grant  his  request. 

"You  have  still  much  to  learn,"  he  said,  "before 
you  can  hope  for  such  honor,  and  the  next  test  is 
difficult,"  and  on  that  he  took  Amanthes  to  the 
12 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

library  of  the  Temple  and  showed  him  a  room  filled 
with  great  rolls  of  papyrus,  and  priests  studying 
them. 

"They  are  all  at  work,"  he  explained,  "inter- 
preting the  divine  Oracles." 

"But  where  are  the  Sayings  of  the  Goddess?" 
cried  Amanthes,  as  if  nothing  else  mattered. 

"Here,"  said  the  High  Priest,  turning  over  one 
small  yellow  roll,  "are  the  sacred  words  of  the  Di- 
vine One,  the  words  which  have  been  commented 
upon  by  wise  men  for  thousands  of  years,  and  be- 
fore we  can  believe  that  anyone  is  worthy  to  enter 
the  shrine  of  the  Goddess  he  must  first  show  his  fit- 
ness by  interpreting  her  Oracles,  or  correcting  some 
of  the  commentators  who  have  gone  before." 

"Let  me  first  see  the  Goddess  and  learn  her  will," 
argued  the  young  man;  "when  I  know  her  I  shall  be 
able  to  interpret  her  words." 

"Presumption!"  cried  the  High  Priest,  "mortals 
can  only  get  glimpses  of  the  Divine,  and  can  never 
know  the  divine  Will  completely,  any  more  than  they 
can  see  the  Goddess  unveiled." 

All  the  young  man's  pleading  was  met  with  a 
steady  refusal:  it  was  unheard  of  that  any  priest 
should  be  admitted  to  the  Shrine  of  the  Deity  before 
he  had  passed  at  least  ten  years  in  the  Temple. 

13 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"I  myself,"  said  the  High  Priest  at  length,  "knew 
all  the  Oracles  and  had  written  two  great  books 
upon  them  before  I  was  admitted  in  my  twelfth  year 
of  service,  and  even  then  I  only  served  at  the  door, 
and  never  entered  the  Shrine  but  with  eyes  bound  so 
that  I  might  not  look  upon  the  naked  beauty  of  the 
Goddess." 

Amanthes  pleaded  with  him  as  one  pleads  for 
life;  but  still  the  High  Priest  remained  obdurate. 

"There  are  the  Oracles,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
books;  "distinguish  yourself  and  I  will  shorten  the 
time  of  your  probation  as  much  as  I  dare,  or  as  cus- 
tom will  allow." 

Amanthes  once  more  bowed  his  head  and  took 
his  place  among  the  students. 

In  the  seventh  month  of  the  same  year  Amanthes 
interpreted  a  saying  of  the  Goddess  with  such  free- 
dom that  all  the  readers  cried  blasphemy  against 
him,  and  brought  him  before  the  High  Priest  to  an- 
swer for  the  crime.  Amanthes  defended  himself 
with  much  boldness  and  many  good  reasons,  till  the 
High  Priest  cried : 

"You  read  the  Oracles  as  if  the  Goddess  were  a 
woman  and  nothing  more,  and  that  is  wrong." 

"How  else  can  they  be  read?"  retorted  Amanthes. 
"If  she  is  not  a  woman  one  can  never  understand 

14 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

her,  and  if  she  is  more  than  a  woman  we  men  can 
only  get  to  the  divine  through  the  human." 

The  High  Priest  himself  was  shaken,  and  hesi- 
tated to  decide,  for  in  the  course  of  the  argument 
he  had  found  that  the  young  man  had  read  the 
sacred  Roll  from  beginning  to  end,  and  knew  every 
word  of  the  Goddess  by  heart. 

"How  did  you  learn  it,"  he  couldn't  help  asking, 
"in  so  short  a  time?" 

Amanthes  only  looked  at  him  smiling,  by  way  of 
answer,  and  again  begged  the  Chief  Priest  to  admit 
him  now  to  the  service  of  the  Goddess,  for  he  had 
surely  proved  himself  and  been  patient.  There  was 
nothing  to  gain  by  waiting. 

But  immemorial  custom  was  against  him  and  the 
High  Priest  resented  his  insistence. 

"You  are  too  daring,"  he  said  at  length;  "it  may 
be  well  to  use  boldness  to  a  woman,  but  to  a  Goddess 
you  must  show  reverence." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Amanthes,  "reverence  to  the 
woman,  who  doesn't  expect  it  and  will  be  won  by  it, 
boldness  to  the  Goddess." 

"Blasphemy,"  cried  the  High  Priest;  "you  are  on 
a  dangerous  way  and  I  must  not  encourage  you," 
and  motioning  to  the  great  bronze  door,  behind 
them,  he  added:    "Go  on  diligently  as  you  have  be- 

15 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

gun  and  it  will  be  open  to  you  perhaps  after  five 
years." 

"Five  years!"  repeated  Amanthes  sadly;  "five 
years  of  life  and  youth  lost:  five  years!" 

"That  door  has  never  opened  in  less,"  replied  the 
High  Priest  solemnly,  but  as  he  spoke  Amanthes 
gripped  his  arm,  crying: 

"Look,  look!"  and  when  the  High  Priest  turned 
he  found  the  door  of  the  Shrine  standing  open. 

"Strange,"  said  the  old  man;  "it  must  be  some 
accident;  I  will  shut  it,"  and  he  seized  the  handle, 
but  the  door  would  not  be  moved;  and  as  he  stood 
there  all  shaken  and  hesitating,  Amanthes  with  eyes 
aflame  cried  out: 

"See,  Isis  the  Beloved,  Isis  herself  has  answered 
my  prayer." 

And  Amanthes  moved  as  if  to  enter  the  sacred 
place,  but  the  High  Priest  held  him  back,  warning: 

"If  you  enter  without  reverence  and  bound  eyes 
you  will  die  on  the  threshold." 

Amanthes  laughed  aloud,  and  strode  past  him 
into  the  Shrine,  and  as  the  High  Priest  held  up  his 
hands  in  fear  and  horror,  the  bronze  door  drew  to 
of  itself  and  closed  between  them. 

From  this  time  on  Amanthes  was  constantly  in 
the  Shrine  of  the  Goddess.  Indeed,  he  scarcely  gave 
16 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

himself  time  to  eat  or  sleep,  and  everyone  remarked 
how  thin  he  grew  and  haggard  with  the  constant 
service.  And  when,  after  some  months,  the  High 
Priest  warned  him  that  his  health  would  break 
down,  and  told  him  that  he  must  not  forget  that  the 
chief  thing  was  the  interpretation  of  the  Oracles, 
Amanthes  answered  impatiently: 

"I  know  nothing  yet:  the  Goddess  vouchsafes  no 
answer  to  my  entreaties!  How  can  one  interpret 
without  knowledge?" 

Now  there  was  a  tradition  that  in  the  first  dynasty 
a  young  priest  had  been  consumed  in  the  service  of 
Isis,  and  had  wasted  away  before  the  Goddess,  till 
one  day  he  was  translated  into  flame  and  disap- 
peared in  a  moment,  and  it  crossed  the  High  Priest's 
mind  that  Amanthes  was  on  the  same  road,  and 
likely  to  meet  the  same  fate,  and  he  desisted  from 
admonishing  him,  fearing  to  make  bad  worse.  He 
left  the  young  man  to  his  own  devices,  till  strange 
tales  came  to  him  from  the  other  priests  that  set 
all  the  Temple  whispering. 

It  was  put  about  that  at  night  Amanthes  used  to 
speak  to  the  Goddess  as  if  she  were  a  woman,  and 
touch  her  statue  as  if  the  limbs  were  flesh.  He  had 
been  overheard  entreating  her  as  a  lover  entreats  his 
mistress,  telling  over  her  beauties  adoringly,  and 

17 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

begging  her  to  lift  the  veil  that  prevented  him  en- 
joying her  divine  loveliness.  While  all  the  priests 
were  muttering,  and  wondering  how  the  impious 
boldness  would  be  punished,  one  came  to  them  with 
ashen  face  and  a  stranger  tale. 

"The  Goddess  has  answered  Amanthes,"  he 
gasped;  "Isis  asked  him  why  he  wanted  the  veil 
lifted,  and  he  stretched  forth  his  arms  and  cried: 
'For  Love's  sake,'  and  as  he  spoke  the  Goddess 
trembled,  and  I  fled,  for  indeed  the  sacred  veil  had 
begun  to  fall  away " 

The  priests  wouldn't  credit  the  tidings.  But  when 
Amanthes  came  forth  from  the  Shrine  some  be- 
lieved, for  he  was  as  one  transfigured.  He  spoke  to 
no  man,  but  went  straight  to  his  cell,  and  from  this 
time  on  he  was  continually  heard  praising  the  God- 
dess in  song  and  glorifying  her  Service. 

A  little  later  Amanthes  went  to  the  High  Priest 
and  asked  him  to  be  allowed  to  write  an  interpreta- 
tion of  the  Oracles,  and  his  interpretation  was  so 
bold  at  once  and  simple  that  the  High  Priest  was 
amazed  by  it  and  frightened,  and  asked  him  how  he 
dared  to  treat  the  divine  words  so  boldly,  and  the 
young  man  answered  quietly  now  and  in  all  humility: 

"Love  is  my  only  guide,  and  the  boldness  of  love 
is  reverence." 
.18 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

The  High  Priest  bowed  his  head,  for  in  spite  of 
himself  he  was  moved  by  the  young  man's  tone  and 
unaccustomed  humbleness.  And  when  the  servitors 
came  to  the  High  Priest  and  demanded  that  Aman- 
thes  should  be  punished  for  insolent  boldness  he 
shook  his  head  and  rebuked  them  impatiently.  And 
when  they  persisted,  declaring  that  the  worship  of 
Amanthes  for  the  Goddess  was  an  outrage  and  in- 
sult to  her,  he  answered  simply: 

"The  Goddess  can  protect  herself." 

It  was  evident  to  all  that  he  did  not  believe  the 
slanders.  And  indeed  such  portions  of  the  interpre- 
tations of  Amanthes  as  the  High  Priest  thought  fit 
to  publish  were  so  astonishingly  simple  and  con- 
vincing that  they  won  many  to  admiration,  and  his 
fame  was  noised  abroad  throughout  all  the  land  of 
Egypt,  and  people  came  from  afar  to  hear  his  words 
and  to  listen  to  his  interpretation  of  the  divine 
speech. 

And  his  humility  now  was  as  evident  as  his  bold- 
ness had  been  aforetime. 

"I  know  nothing,"  he  said:  "I  am  but  a  reed 
through  which  the  Goddess  speaks :  of  myself  noth- 
ing." 

His  modesty  impressed  the  people  more  than  any 
assurance  would  have  done,  and  when  he  served  Isis 

19 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

in  public  the  great  Temple  was  thronged  and  all 
the  people  stirred  by  the  fervor  of  the  ritual,  and 
when  at  the  end  he  knelt  before  the  Goddess,  to  re- 
cite the  formal  benediction,  he  prayed  with  such 
passion  that  everyone  was  affected,  and  the  worship 
of  the  Goddess,  the  Giver  of  Life,  spread  on  all 
sides  and  grew  mightily. 

The  success  of  Amanthes  made  many  of  the 
priests  envious,  and  sharpened  the  jealousy  of  those 
who  had  been  against  him  from  the  beginning.  And 
of  these  one  of  the  chief  was  that  servitor  who  had 
already  spied  upon  him,  and  reported  his  entreaties 
of  the  Goddess  to  the  High  Priest.  This  man  had 
been  one  of  the  most  learned  of  the  commentators 
before  Amanthes  had  appeared.  He  did  not  know 
all  the  words  of  the  Goddess  like  Amanthes,  but  he 
knew  by  heart  all  the  comments  that  had  been  made 
on  them  and  all  the  interpretations  for  a  thousand 
years,  which  were  indeed  in  themselves  a  library  of 
dead  men's  words.  He  had  been  supplanted  by  the 
coming  of  Amanthes,  and  now  lived  for  nothing  but 
his  undoing.  One  day  he  came  to  the  High  Priest 
with  a  mysterious  air  and  a  slander  which  he  would 
not  tell,  and  when  the  High  Priest  pressed  him  to 
say  what  it  was,  he  withstood  him. 

"I  will  not  repeat  what  I  have  heard,"  he  said, 
20 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"nor  soil  my  lips  with  the  blasphemy.  Come  and 
hear  for  yourself." 

And  when  the  High  Priest  refused  to  come,  for 
he  was  very  old  and  fearful  of  shocks,  the  slanderer 
insisted: 

"You  will  see  Amanthes,"  he  said,  "at  his  foul 
work;  and  you  will  see  Her  too,  and  you  shall  judge 
whether  such  things  are  to  be  permitted." 

He  spoke  with  such  horror  and  hinted  at  such 
practices  that  the  High  Priest  at  length  consented  to 
go  to  his  cell  with  him  and  spy  upon  Amanthes ;  for 
his  cell  joined  the  Shrine  itself,  and  was  only  sepa- 
rated from  it  by  one  wall.  And  he  showed  the  High 
Priest  that,  when  his  cell  was  darkened,  they  could 
see  between  two  layers  of  the  stone  everything  that 
went  on  in  the  Shrine  of  the  Goddess  and  hear  every 
word  as  distinctly  as  if  they  had  been  within  the 
sacred  place. 

And  while  the  High  Priest  and  servitor  were  lis- 
tening, Amanthes  entered  the  Shrine  and  stood  be- 
fore the  Goddess.  And  they  saw  that  he  had  come 
as  from  the  bath,  for  his  neck  shone  and  his  linen 
had  been  bleached  by  the  Nile  water.  For  some 
time  he  stood  in  dumb  entreaty  with  hands  out- 
stretched, and  the  High  Priest  thought  that  the 
Goddess  trembled  before  the  dumb  intensity  of  the 

21 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

appeal,  and  he  turned  his  head  aside  for  he  would 
not  trust  his  eyes. 

At  length  Amanthes  spoke,  and  the  High  Priest 
scarcely  recognized  his  voice: 

"How  long?"  he  cried.    "How  long?" 

And  his  arms  fell  as  if  in  despair,  and  he  sighed 
heavily  as  one  in  pain.  And  suddenly  he  went  over 
to  the  Goddess,  and  put  his  hands  upon  her  hips, 
and  the  Chief  Priest  turned  aside  breathless,  for  he 
would  not  look,  though  the  servitor  with  sharp-set 
eyes  nudged  him.  But  he  heard  Amanthes  speak- 
ing, and  as  he  spoke  he  turned  again  to  the  Shrine, 
and  this  was  what  he  heard: 

"How  long  am  I  to  wait,  O  Queen;  how  long? 
Before  I  knew  you  I  worshiped  you,  and  every  fa- 
vor you  have  accorded  me  has  fed  my  passion. 
When  you  removed  the  first  veil  you  showed  me  a 
new  Isis,  even  lovelier  than  my  imagining,  and  I 
stood  entranced;  and  every  veil  you  have  taken  off 
since  has  revealed  some  new  perfection  hitherto  un- 
dreamed. Am  I  then  unworthy  to  have  the  last 
veil  lifted?  Unworthy,  though  consumed  with 
adoration." 

And  as  his  hands  touched  the  Goddess,  the  High 
Priest  saw  that  she  trembled  as  if  she  had  been  flesh 
22 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  blood,  and  his  breath  caught,  for  the  Goddess 
spoke. 

"If  I  refuse,"  said  Isis,  "it  is  for  your  sake, 
Amanthes,"  and  her  hand  touched  his  hair. 

And  Amanthes  cried  aloud: 

"To  refuse  one  thing  is  to  refuse  all :  love  knows 
no  denials :  I  would  see  you  as  you  are,  as  the  Gods 
see  you  face  to  face." 

And  the  High  Priest  shuddered  in  fear,  for  the 
grave  voice  of  the  Goddess  was  heard  again: 

"No  woman's  soul  can  resist  love:  to-morrow  it 
shall  be  as  you  desire." 

And  they  saw  Amanthes  twine  his  arms  round  the 
Goddess  and  kiss  her  limbs,  and  with  the  last  look 
the  High  Priest  saw  that  he  was  prone  before  the 
Shrine  with  his  lips  pressed  against  the  feet  of  Isis. 

And  the  High  Priest  as  he  went  would  not  even 
speak  with  the  servitor,  for  he  was  full  of  appre- 
hension, and  torn  in  many  ways,  partly  by  affection 
for  Amanthes,  partly  by  curiosity,  and  most  of  all 
for  fear  of  what  would  happen  on  the  morrow. 

In  the  morning  he  gave  orders  that  the  servitor 
should  be  in  close  attendance  upon  himself,  and  that 
his  cell,  from  which  one  could  look  into  the  Shrine, 
should  be  closed,  and  he  ordained  twenty-four  hours 

23 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

of  solemn  fasting  and  prayer  for  all  the  priests,  and 
decreed  that  the  Temple  should  be  shut. 

In  the  second  hour,  after  the  orders  had  been 
given,  Amanthes  came  to  him,  and  the  High  Priest 
hardly  dared  to  look  on  him,  for  his  face  was  as 
the  face  of  one  who  had  talked  to  the  Divine  and 
won  his  soul's  desire. 

But  Amanthes  stretched  out  his  strong  hands  and 
caught  the  old  man  by  the  shoulders,  and  said  in  his 
rich  voice:  "I  thank  you.  You  have  done  what  I 
would  have  ordered  in  your  place." 

And  the  High  Priest  gasped: 

"Are  you  not  afraid?" 

"Afraid?"  he  cried.  "To-night  is  the  night  for 
which  I  was  born,"  and  as  he  turned  and  went  the 
High  Priest  saw  his  shining  eyes  and  felt  a  little 

envious. 

The  morning  after  the  great  fast  the  High  Priest 
went  himself  to  the  Shrine  with  all  his  attendants 
robed  and  in  order  as  to  solemn  service.  And  after 
the  three  prayers  the  bronze  doors  were  opened; 
and  there,  stretched  before  the  Goddess,  lying  prone, 
was  Amanthes.  And  the  moment  the  High  Priest 
saw  him  he  knew  that  the  youth  was  dead,  and  when 
he  looked  up  at  the  Goddess  he  saw  she  was  veiled 
as  usual,  and  her  hands  were  by  her  side. 

24 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

THE  scene  is  in  Moscow,  just  where  the  wide 
Boulevard  meets  the  TVerskaia.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  way  is  the  statue  to  Puschkin;  on  the  right 
hand,  walling  the  street,  the  great  monastery  to  the 
Passion  of  Christ.  This  is  the  favorite  promenade 
of  the  gay-plumaged  night-birds  of  Moscow.  They 
walk  up  and  down  the  street  in  the  glare  of  the 
shops,  and  then  cross  and  go  down  the  Boulevard, 
shadows  drifting  from  darkness  into  the  light,  and 
again  from  the  light  into  darkness. 

One  night  in  the  early  winter  of  19 12  a  young 
girl  was  among  them,  warmly  but  dowdily  dressed, 
like  a  well-to-do  provincial;  yet  she  scanned  the 
passers-by  as  the  professionals  scan  them,  and 
walked  slowly  as  they  walk,  though  it  was  no  time 
for  loitering.  The  winter  had  set  in  early,  and 
already  in  November  the  air  was  keen  with  frost, 
and  the  stars  glittered  like  diamonds. 

A  young  man  came  hurrying  by:  as  he  passed  he 
caught  sight  of  the  girl's  profile  and  eyes  as  she  lin- 

27 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

gered  before  a  shop  window.     He  stopped  at  once 
and  went  over  to  her. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  anyone?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  replied  quite  quietly: 

"No  one  in  particular." 

"Willi  do?"  he  asked  gaily. 

She  threw  a  quick  glance  at  him  and  nodded. 

His  manner  changed  with  her  acceptance.  For  a 
moment  he  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  take  her  by  the 
arm,  and  then  drew  back. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  have  to  dine  to-night  with 
some  relatives;  I'm  late  already,"  he  hurried  on, 
"but  I  must  know  you;  I  never  saw  anyone  so  pretty. 
I  can't  stay  to-night;  I  must  go  now;  I  can't  get  out 
of  it.    You'll  meet  me  to-morrow  night,  won't  you?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"But  why  not?"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  absurd.  I 
want  you;  you  have  taken  my  fancy,  and  I  want  to 
know  all  about  you.  Do  promise  me  you  will  go 
home  now  and  be  here  to-morrow  at  the  same  time." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  again:  "I  can't  prom- 
ise." 

"But  why  not?"  he  insisted.  "It's  absurd.  Sup- 
pose I  pay  you  for  the  evening?" 

He  threw  open  his  fur  coat  and  took  some  notes 
out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
28 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

"No,  no  !"  cried  the  girl,  shrinking  away;  "I  don't 
want  money." 

"Don't  want  money?"  he  said.  "Don't  be  silly. 
What  else  are  you  here  for?  Now  look,"  he  went 
on  imperiously,  "here  are  ten  roubles.  Now  go 
home,  and  I'll  meet  you  here  to-morrow  night  at 
half-past  seven  exactly.    Will  you  promise?" 

She  shook  her  head;  but  he  seized  her  hand  and 
shut  the  note  in  the  palm. 

"I  must  go,"  he  cried  hurriedly;  "but  I'm  sure 
you'll  be  here  to-morrow;  you're  too  young  to 
cheat."     And  he  hurried  away. 

The  girl  didn't  turn  to  look  after  him,  but  stood 
for  a  moment  undecided,  then  took  out  a  little  purse 
and  pushed  in  the  banknote  and  resumed  her  casual 
walk,  now  glancing  at  the  passers-by,  now  with  ap- 
parent coquetry  stopping  in  the  full  glare  of  some 
shop  window,  loitering. 

A  little  while  later  another  man  accosted  her. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  as  the  strong  voice  reached  her. 

"Nothing." 

"And  your  name?"  he  went  on,  drawing  her 
nearer  still  to  the  glaring  light  in  the  window. 

"Rebecca,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 

"A  Jewess!"  he  cried.     "I  might  have  known  it 

29 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

with  that  coloring  and  those  great  eyes.  But  you 
don't  look  Jewish,  you  know,  with  that  little  straight 
nose;  and  you  are  new  at  this  game,  aren't  you?" 

The  girl's  eyes  met  his  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"Will  you  come  and  dine?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Are  you  free  for  the  night?" 

She  paused  as  if  swallowing  something  before  she 
nodded. 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  said;  "we'll  go  and  have 
some  dinner  and  a  talk." 

The  next  moment  he  had  stopped  a  droschky  that 
was  swinging  by  behind  a  black  Orloff,  and  had 
helped  the  girl  to  a  seat. 

"To  the  Hermitage,"  he  said,  and  the  little  car 
whirled  away  down  the  street. 

The  Hermitage  in  Moscow  is  a  very  convenient 
establishment.  It  has  over  two  hundred  suites  of 
rooms,  from  five  roubles  for  the  night  to  fifty;  from 
one  room  with  a  bed  in  it  and  the  ordinary  exiguous 
toilet  requirements,  to  a  suite  of  sitting-room,  bed- 
room, and  a  bathroom  so  large  that  a  couple  may 
swim  about  in  it.  It  has  sixteen  entrances,  too,  and 
as  many  exits,  so  there  is  small  chance  of  meeting 
anyone  you  don't  want  to  meet. 

30 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

The  man,  evidently  a  well-to-do  merchant,  se- 
lected a  good  number,  and  as  they  followed  the 
waiter  into  the  corridor  a  little  bell  tinkled,  and  con- 
tinued to  tinkle  till  they  got  into  the  sitting-room  and 
the  closed  door  shut  out  its  ringing. 

"What's  that  bell  for?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Oh,  that  is  one  of  the  customs  of  the  place,"  said 
the  man,  taking  off  his  gloves  and  laughing  to  the 
waiter;  "isn't  it,  Ivan?  The  bell  rings  just  to  warn 
people  not  to  leave  their  rooms  till  the  new  comers 
are  installed,  otherwise  one  might  meet  inconvenient 
people  in  the  passages.  Everything  is  well  arranged 
in  the  Hermitage,  that  one  can  say  for  it." 

The  girl  nodded  her  head,  smiling,  and  stood  ex- 
pectant in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Hurriedly,  but 
as  one  accustomed  to  it,  the  man  ordered  a  good 
dinner,  and  as  the  waiter  left  the  room  he  turned 
with  astonishment  to  the  Jewess: 

"What!"  he  cried,  "you  haven't  taken  off  your 
hat  and  coat  yet?"  and  he  came  toward  her  as  if  to 
help  her. 

At  once  she  hurried  over  to  the  nearest  glass,  put 
up  her  hands,  and  took  off  her  little  fur  cap  and  be- 
gan arranging  her  hair;  then  slowly  loosening  her 
coat,  she  folded  the  heavy  garment  carefully,  and 
laid  it  on  a  chair. 

31 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

The  man  went  on  talking  the  while : 

"Lucky  it  was  I  met  you;  didn't  know  what  to  do 
with  my  evening.  A  man  I  expected  to  see  failed 
me  and  I  was  at  a  loose  end,  when  I  caught  sight  of 
your  pretty  face.  But  what  age  are  you,  Rebecca? 
You  look  very  young,"  he  added,  as  if  remarking 
her  extreme  youth  for  the  first  time. 

"Sixteen,"  she  said. 

"Really!"  he  cried.  "I  should  have  thought  nine- 
teen; but  then  you  mature  more  quickly  than  Rus- 
sians, don't  you?" 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  suppose 
so. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  waiter  who  brought 
in  dinner,  and  for  the  first  course  or  two  little  was 
said.  As  usual,  they  had  the  meat  first  and  then 
the  fish,  Russian  fashion.  When  they  had  finished 
the  fish,  the  man's  appetite  being  half  sated,  he  found 
time  to  notice  that  the  girl  had  hardly  touched  the 
food. 

"Come,  come,"  he  cried,  "you  must  eat." 

"I  can't,"  she  said;  "I  don't  feel  hungry." 

"That  is  no  reason:  you  must  eat,"  he  insisted. 
"We  live  by  eating;  and  you  must  drink  too,"  and 
he  poured  her  out  another  glass  of  sweet  cham- 
pagne.   "You  like  champagne,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

32 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

"It  tastes  funny,"  she  said.  "At  first  it  went  up 
in  my  nose  and  tickled.    I  never  saw  it  before." 

"Really!"  he  exclaimed,  "then  you  must  be  new 
at  the  game.  How  long  have  you  been  in  Mos- 
cow?" 

The  girl  seemed  to  hesitate:  looked  at  him  and 
looked  down. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to,"  he 
said  huffily. 

The  waiter  interrupted  them  again. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  the  meal  was  finished. 
The  man  lit  a  cigarette.  The  waiter  left  the  room 
for  the  last  time,  the  pair  were  alone. 

"Come,  Rebecca,"  said  the  man.  "Come  and  give 
me  a  kiss." 

The  girl  came  round  the  table  and  stood  beside 
him.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  down 
to  his  knee.     She  seemed  awkward,  hesitant. 

"Where  is  the  kiss?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

The  girl  turned  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried,  "you  don't  call  that  a 
kiss,  do  you?  What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  and 
he  put  his  cigarette-holder  down  on  the  table,  and, 
winding  both  arms  round  her,  drew  her  to  him  and 
held  his  lips  to  hers. 

33 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

She  yielded  stiffly,  reluctantly.  After  kissing  her 
for  some  little  time  the  man  pushed  her  away. 

"Do  you  call  that  kissing?  Why,  you  can't  kiss 
at  all.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Give  me  a 
proper  kiss." 

Again  the  girl  pecked  at  his  cheek. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "if  I  displease  you,  tell  me; 
but  don't  go  on  like  this ;  it's  silly." 

He  rose,  looking  at  her  crossly,  his  vanity  smart- 
ing. 

The  girl  noticed  for  the  first  time  when  he  drew 
himself  up  that  he  was  fine  looking,  above  middle 
height,  and  powerful:  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life, 
thirty  perhaps,  with  strong  face,  clean-shaven  but 
for  the  small  fair  mustache. 

"You  dislike  me?"  he  went  on,  putting  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders,  "tell  me  the  truth?" 

"No,"  she  shook  her  head. 

"Then  why  don't  you  kiss  me?" 

"I  have  kissed  you." 

"But  you  know  that  isn't  the  proper  way  to  kiss," 
he  said. 

"Are  there  many  ways  of  kissing?"  she  asked, 
looking  up  at  him. 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "This  is  the  right  way," 
and,  taking  her  head  in  his  hands,  he  crushed  his  lips 

34 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

on  hers.    "Now  give  me  a  good  kiss,  as  if  you  liked 


me." 


With  glowing  face,  the  girl  gave  him  another 
peck. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  sitting  down. 
"Come,  tell  me.  I  must  know.  Is  it  pretense  with 
you,  or  dislike?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

Suddenly  her  troubled,  hot  face  gave  him  a  new 
idea:  "You're  not  a  novice,  are  you?  How  long 
have  you  been  in  Moscow?  Where  do  you  live? 
Come,  tell  me."    And  he  drew  her  to  his  knee  again. 

As  the  girl  sat  down  she  put  her  right  elbow  on 
the  table  behind  her  to  keep  herself  upright  and,  as 
luck  would  have  it,  snapped  the  amber  and  meer- 
schaum cigarette-holder.  As  she  started  up  the  man 
picked  up  the  cigarette-holder,  smiling. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "it  doesn't  matter.  I 
will  put  the  cigarette  further  away  on  a  plate." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  cried  the  girl. 

"It's  nothing,"  said  the  man.  "But  tell  me  when 
did  you  come  to  Moscow?" 

The  girl  stood  before  him  with  her  hands  clasped 
in  front  of  her,  for  all  the  world  like  a  schoolgirl; 
indeed,  she  was  hardly  more.  She  had  evidently 
made  up  her  mind  to  speak. 

35 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"This  afternoon,"  she  replied. 

"What!  for  the  first  time?"  he  asked. 

"For  the  first  time,"  she  repeated. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Here,"  she  said. 

"Here?"  he  repeated;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  a  long  story,"  she  said,  unclasping  her  hands 
and  quickly  clasping  them  again. 

"Tell  me  it,"  he  said.  "We  have  time,  and  I 
should  like  to  hear  it  all,"  and  he  drew  her  toward 
him. 

And  standing  there  by  his  left  knee  she  told  him 
the  story. 

"I  came  from  Gorod  by  train.    It  is  a  long  story." 

Encouraged  by  his  "Go  on,"  she  began  again. 

"I  wanted  to  study  at  the  University.  Only  three 
Jewesses  are  allowed  to  come  from  Gorod  to  Mos- 
cow. The  three  who  won  had  been  studying  for 
years  and  years;  the  youngest  of  them  was  over 
thirty.  Only  three  are  allowed  each  year  to  leave 
the  town,  and  there  are  thousands  of  Jewesses  in 
Gorod.  I  was  fourth,  so  I  would  have  had  to  wait 
another  year  or  perhaps  longer.  But  as  my  mother 
was  a  widow  I  soon  coaxed  her,  and  she  gave  me 
the  money  and  let  me  come  to  Moscow  to  study." 

36 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

"Why  do  you  want  to  study?"  he  asked;  "what's 
the  good  of  books?    They  only  tire  pretty  eyes." 

The  girl  stared  at  him  in  wonder;  the  question 
was  so  unexpected,  she  had  to  think  to  find  an  an- 
swer; she  began  confusedly,  eagerly: 

"I  want  to  know  heaps  of  things,  I'm  so  igno- 
rant," she  burst  out.  "I  want  to  be  like  the  great 
women  who  have  done  things  in  the  world.  Oh,  I 
can't  say  what  I  want  to  say;  but  I — you  know,  to 
be  ignorant  to-day  is  stupid,  oh,  I " 

He  nodded,  hardly  interested,  wishing  to  get  the 
story. 

"And  so  you  came  to  Moscow?" 

"This  afternoon,"  she  said;  "it  was  already  get- 
ting dark.  I  went  to  a  hotel,  but  at  the  hotel — I 
had  taken  a  room  and  everything — before  they  sent 
for  my  box  to  the  station  they  asked  me  for  my 
passport,  and  when  I  told  them  I  hadn't  a  passport 
they  changed  their  manner  at  once,  said  they  had  no 
room  for  me,  I  had  better  go.  .  .  . 

"I  went  to  a  cheaper  hotel  and  showed  them  that 
I  had  money;  but  again,  as  soon  as  they  found  I 
had  no  passport,  they  turned  me  out  into  the  streets. 
...  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I  spoke  to  a  lady, 
and  she  answered  rudely,  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a 
beggar.    So  at  last  I  spoke  to  one  of  those  women 

3? 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

who  walk  up  and  down  the  street.  She  was  kind 
to  me;  she  told  me  I  could  not  get  a  lodging  any- 
where in  Moscow  without  a  passport;  it  was  not 
possible.  But  even  when  she  found  out  I  was  a 
Jewess  she  was  kind,  told  me  I  was  in  a  bad  way, 
for  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  a  passport,  because 
the  police  don't  like  Jewesses.  The  only  thing  for 
me  to  do,  she  said,  was  to  get  a  Yellow  Ticket  of 
the — you  know — the  Yellow  Ticket  of  the  prosti- 
tute 1" 

The  man  whistled — "Whew!" — a  long,  low  note. 

"She  said,  as  it  was  early,  she  would  go  with  me 
to  the  police  bureau,  and  on  the  way  she  told  me  that 
it  was  quite  easy  to  get  a  Yellow  Ticket.  I  had  only 
to  go  in  boldly  and  ask  for  one  and  pay  fifteen 
roubles,  and  come  away.  If  I  had  money  and 
wanted  to  study,  I  did  not  need  to — do  anything, 
but  with  the  Yellow  Ticket  there  were  hundreds  of 
houses  where  I  could  get  a  lodging;  otherwise  they'd 
let  me  freeze  on  the  street.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  paused  and  looked  at  him. 

"A  prostitute  is  welcome,  but  not  a  Jewess,  in 
Moscow — Christian  Moscow,"  she  added  as  if  to 
herself. 

The  man  laughed  and  put  his  arms  round  her. 
38 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

"You  are  delightful,"  he  said,  laughing  again. 
"Well,  what  happened  then?" 

"I  went  into  the  station,"  the  girl  went  on,  "and 
asked  one  of  the  policemen  where  I  was  to  get  a 
'Yellow  Ticket.'  And  he  tried  to  kiss  me  and  then 
took  me  into  the  Inspector's  room,  and  the  Inspector 
came  and  began  questioning  me.  When  I  told  him 
I  had  just  come  to  Moscow  he  tried  to  kiss  me,  and 
I  wouldn't  let  him,  so  he  said  he  wouldn't  give  me 
a  Yellow  Ticket  unless  I  let  him  kiss  me;  well,  I  let 
him;  but  then  he  wanted  .  .  . 

"At  last  I  ran  out  of  the  place  without  the  Ticket, 
and  found  that  my  friend  had  gone  away.  After  a 
little  while  I  found  another  woman,  again  a  woman 
of  the  streets,  and  told  her  what  had  happened. 
She  told  me  the  only  thing  she  could  think  of  was 
for  me  to  get  a  man  and  go  home  with  him,  and 
then  get  him  to  come  with  me  in  the  morning  to 
the  police  bureau,  and  a  Yellow  Ticket  would  be 
given  to  me  at  once. 

"The  Yellow  Ticket,"  she  explained  gravely,  "is 
a  sort  of  prize  in  Moscow!" 

"I  dare  say  we  can  manage  the  Yellow  Ticket," 
said  the  man  carelessly.  "But  are  you  really  a 
novice  r 

The  girl  nodded. 

39 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"You  would  rather  not  begin  the  game?" 

She  nodded  quickly,  eagerly. 

"What  an  adventure!"  he  cried,  stretching  out  his 
arms.  "Do  you  know,  it  is  rather  lucky  you  have 
fallen  into  good  hands,  Rebecca?  You  interest  me. 
Strangely  enough,  I  don't  want  to  kiss  anyone  par- 
ticularly who  doesn't  want  to  kiss  me.  That  is 
strange,  isn't  it?"  he  asked,  laughing. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  seems  to  me  quite  natural." 

"That  is  because  you  are  a  girl,"  he  replied, 
smiling.  "It  isn't  natural  to  most  men.  Come, 
now,  do  you  want  to  go  in  there  and  sleep  alone? 
What  would  you  like  me  to  do?  Let  you  sleep  alone 
and  then  help  you  to  get  the  Yellow  Ticket  in  the 
morning,  or  go  in  there  with  you  and  have  a  good 
time?"  and  he  nodded  to  the  bedroom. 

"Alone,"  she  cried.  "Do  you  mind?  But  then, 
where  are  you  to  sleep?"  she  added  ruefully. 

"Oh,  I  can  sleep  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
sofa;  "I  have  often  slept  in  worse  places.  I  will 
read  some  papers  I  have  got  in  my  overcoat,  and  you 
can  go  in  and  go  to  bed."  He  spoke  as  if  dismissing 
her,  and  the  girl  went  hesitatingly  toward  the  bed- 
room door.  At  the  door  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him.  He  nodded,  smiling,  and  waved  his  hand  to 
her. 

40 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said;  "have  a  good  sleep." 

"I'd  like,"  she  said,  coming  back  a  little  way 
toward  him,  "I'd  like  to  kiss  you." 

"Come  along,"  he  said,  and  she  came  back  to 
him  slowly  across  the  room,  and  this  time  she  yielded 
herself  to  him  and  left  her  lips  on  his.  He  lifted  her 
away  at  last,  and  said: 

"Now?"  half  interrogatively. 

The  girl  cried:  quickly: 

"Good  night;  thank  you  so  much;  good  night," 
and,  running  across  the  room,  disappeared  into  the 
bedroom  and  closed  the  door. 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  man  looked  at  the  door, 
smiling;  then  he  got  up  and  went  to  his  overcoat, 
took  out  some  papers,  lit  another  cigarette,  and  set- 
tled down  to  read  in  the  armchair. 

An  hour  later  there  was  unbroken  silence  in  the 
room.  The  man  got  up,  stretched  himself,  took  off 
his  collar  and  coat,  undid  his  boots,  arranged  his 
big  fur  overcoat  as  covering,  then  went  to  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  and  listened:  all  was  still.  He  put 
his  hand  on  the  handle:  he  could  hear  his  heart 
throb. 

After  a  pause  he  turned  away  and  threw  himself 
down  on  the  sofa.     In  ten  minutes  he  was  asleep. 


41 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Shortly  before  eight  o'clock  the  man  woke,  got  up 
and  opened  the  windows,  rang  the  bell  and  ordered 
breakfast,  went  into  the  bathroom  and  bathed  his 
face  and  hands.  While  the  waiter  was  laying  the 
table,  he  went  out  hurriedly.  In  an  hour  he  re- 
turned and  went  over  and  knocked  at  the  girl's  door. 
A  moment  later  he  heard  her  voice,  and  went  in. 
She  was  standing  fully  dressed  before  him. 

"Slept  well?"  he  asked. 

"Thanks  to  you !"  she  nodded,  and  the  deep  eyes 
dwelt  on  him. 

"Been  up  long?"  he  asked. 

"Two  hours,"  she  replied. 

"Oh,  you  early  bird !  Now  come  and  have  break- 
fast.    I  have  news  for  you." 

"I  have  news  for  you  too,"  she  said,  following 
him  to  the  table.     "This  is  a  funny  place." 

"Why  do  you  call  it  funny?"  he  said,  taking  up 
some  salt  fish  on  his  fork. 

"Because  I  came  in  while  you  were  sleeping,"  she 
said,  "and  tried  to  go  out.  I  wanted  to  buy  you  a 
cigarette-holder  for  the  one  I  broke,  but  when  I  got 
to  the  entrance  I  was  stopped.  They  told  me  I 
couldn't  go  out  without  you.  It  appears  I  might 
have  robbed  you,  or  murdered  you,  so  I  was  es- 
42 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

corted  back  here  and  told  to  wait.  It  is  a  funny 
place,  the  Hermitage." 

"Do  you  know,  you  are  a  dear,"  he  said,  "to 
have  thought  of  that  holder,"  and  he  stretched  out 
his  hand  to  her.  She  came  now  willingly  and  stooped 
her  dark  head  to  his  fair  one  and  kissed  him. 

"That's  better!"  he  cried.  "You  are  making 
great  progress.  Fancy!  You  have  learned  to  kiss 
quite  nicely  in  twenty-four  hours;  that  is  very  quick." 

"Very  easy,"  she  said  saucily,  "when  the  heart 
teaches  the  lips." 

"So  you  do  like  me  a  little?"  he  asked. 

Again  the  eyes  dwelt  on  him. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  simply. 

As  if  trying  to  shake  off  an  unwonted  emotion, 
he  got  up  and  said  in  his  ordinary  quick  tone : 

"I  have  been  out  trying  to  do  something  for  you," 
and  he  took  out  his  pocketbook  and  laid  it  on  the 
table. 

She  noticed  that  his  nails  were  more  carefully 
kept  than  her  own;  she  liked  the  evidence  of  care. 

"You  interested  me  last  night,"  he  said,  "and  I 
wanted  really  to  do  something  for  you,  and  persuade 
you  to  like  me,  I  don't  know  why." 

"That  was  good  of  you,"  she  said,  coming  over 

43 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  standing  beside  him;  "but  I  do  like  you,"  she 
added  softly. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  might,"  he  said,  putting 
his  arm  round  her,  "but,  curiously  enough,  I  wanted 
you  to  be  free,  quite  free ;  so  I  went  out  and  got  you 
baptized,  you  little  Jewess,"  and  he  turned  up  the 
pretty,  glowing  face  with  his  hand  and  kissed  her 
on  the  lips. 

He  went  on  speaking  with  mock  gravity : 

"Your  name  now  is  Vera  Novikoff,  and  not  Re- 
becca Rubinovitch." 

"Vera  Novikoff?"  the  girl  marveled. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  taking  a  paper  out  of  his  pocket- 
book.  "Everything  can  be  bought  in  Moscow,  and 
I  went  out  to  buy  a  passport  for  you,  and  I  bought 
a  passport  this  morning  in  the  name  of  Vera  Novi- 
koff, and  as  Vera  Novikoff  you  can  live  in  Moscow 
wherever  you  please,  how  you  please,  unmolested." 

"How  good  of  you!"  she  cried.  "I  knew  you 
were  good.  But  it  must  have  cost  you  a  lot  of 
money?" 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling  into  her  eyes.  "No, 
strange  to  say,  Vera,  it  was  cheaper  than  the  Yel- 
low Ticket.  You  said  the  Yellow  Ticket  was  fifteen 
roubles;  I  paid  twelve  for  this.  It  is  cheaper,  you 
see,"  and  he  held  it  toward  her. 

44 


The  Yellow  Ticket:  Jiolte  Bilet 

The  girl  took  it  in  her  hands,  and  said,  simply, 
slowly,  as  if  to  herself: 

"Cheaper!     Yes,  it  costs  less  than  the  Yellow 

Ticket.  .  .  ." 


4$ 


The  Ugly  Duckling 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

After  Hans  Christian  Andersen 

MY  earliest  memories  are  neither  very  clear 
nor  very  interesting;  but  when  still  very 
young  I  became  conscious  that  I  was  unlike  my 
brothers  and  sisters:  I  grew  faster  than  they  did 
and  as  soon  as  I  out-topped  them  the  tolerance  they 
had  hitherto  shown  me  ceased;  instead  of  kindness 
I  got  nothing  but  blame :  whatever  I  did  they  found 
fault  with:  I  was  always  getting  in  their  way  it 
seemed  and  always  being  snapped  at  by  a  brother 
or  sister  with  reason  and  without.  At  first  I  didn't 
mind  this  much:  with  the  unconsciousness  of  youth 
I  took  it  all  as  part  of  the  unexpectedness  of  life 
and  paid  no  particular  attention  to  it,  giving  as  good 
as  I  got.  But  day  by  day  the  differences  between  my 
brothers  and  sisters  and  myself  grew  more  marked, 
and  I  soon  began  to  notice  that  they  were  getting 
our  mother  on  their  side  and  putting  her  against  me, 
which  made  me  miserable. 

49 


LThe  Veils  of  Isis 

In  my  wretchedness  I  would  wander  away  from 
the  others,  for  I  hated  to  show  how  they  had  hurt 
me,  and  took  to  swimming  about  in  the  lake.  I  was 
attracted  by  the  smell  of  a  plant  which  only  grew  in 
rather  deep  water,  and  when  I  tasted  it  as  young 
things  do,  I  found  it  scented  and  sweet  and  infinitely 
more  to  my  liking  than  the  scraps  of  meat  which 
the  others  were  always  hunting  for  along  the  shore 
of  the  lake  or  at  the  back-doors  of  the  apefolk. 
And  this  taste  of  mine  seemed  to  annoy  my  mother 
almost  as  much  as  it  did  my  brothers  and  sisters, 
who  all  declared  that  the  plant  I  liked  was  bitter 
and  bad  and  made  them  as  sick  as  I  am  sure  the 
scraps  of  meat  did  me.  At  first,  I  couldn't  for  the 
life  of  me  see  why  I  shouldn't  eat  what  I  liked  so 
long  as  I  accorded  the  others  the  same  freedom;  but 
my  mother  told  me  it  was  wrong  to  be  peculiar;  it 
was  good  to  be  like  the  others  and  bad  to  be  dif- 
ferent from  them,  which  seemed  to  me,  I  don't  know 
why,  senseless  and  unreasonable.  But  one  day  I 
was  shown  the  matter  from  her  point  of  view. 

My  lonely  wanderings  had  made  me  fond  of 
going  into  deep  water,  and  I  was  soon  a  far  stronger 
swimmer  than  any  of  my  brethren :  one  day  I  ven- 
tured to  swim  out  to  the  reed-fringed  island  in  the 
center  of  the  lake,   and  coast  about  it.     There  I 

50 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

found  food  of  all  sorts  in  profusion  and  of  the 
very  best,  and  nothing  would  content  me  but  I 
must  return  at  once  and  tell  the  others  of  my  dis- 
covery. As  luck  would  have  it  our  mother  had 
gone  up  the  yard  with  the  big  drake,  and  I  soon 
persuaded  the  ducklings  to  follow  me  to  the  island. 
It  was  a  good  way  out  and  when  we  left  the 
shelter  of  the  shore,  the  waves  ran  higher,  and 
soon  one  of  the  little  ducklings  was  in  trouble:  see- 
ing that,  I  helped  her  and  in  a  little  while  the  whole 
brood  came  safely  to  shore.  But  perhaps  because 
they  were  tired  and  a  little  afraid  they  didn't  like 
the  food  I  showed  them,  and  soon  all  wanted  to 
get  home  again.  I  was  disgusted  with  them  but 
too  proud  to  beg  them  to  stay  and  give  the  new 
place  a  fair  trial,  so  I  stepped  at  once  into  the  water 
and  began  to  swim  back. 

On  the  way  home  one  duckling  after  another 
was  buffeted  by  the  waves  and  got  giddy,  and  in 
spite  of  all  my  efforts,  if  our  mother  had  not  espied 
us  and  come  to  my  assistance,  one  or  more  of  the 
brood  must  have  been  drowned.  As  soon  as  we 
all  reached  the  shore  our  mother  turned  on  me 
and  upbraided  me  bitterly;  I  was  not  only  ugly  and 
overgrown,  but  wicked  as  well:  she  didn't  know 
how  I  could  be  a  child  of  hers :  I  was  all  neck  and 

51 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

legs,  not  like  a  nice  round  duckling  at  all;  dirty 
green,  too,  in  color  and  not  fluffy  and  soft  like 
my  pretty  brothers  and  sisters.  They  were  right 
to  call  me  "The  Ugly  Duckling";  my  conceit  was 
intolerable,  and  if  she  ever  again  caught  me  break- 
ing bounds  and  leading  her  little  dears  into  danger, 
she'd  teach  me  it  was  dangerous  to  break  her  com- 
mands. 

All  this  time  she  went  on  smoothing  and  petting 
the  little  ones  who  seemed  most  knocked  about;  but 
I  could  see  that  the  little  beasts  pretended  to  be 
more  exhausted  than  they  really  were,  just  to  get 
her  sympathy,  and  perhaps  be  favored  later  with 
a  dainty  tid-bit  or  two  which  she  might  discover. 
And  this  set  me  against  them  almost  as  much  as 
the  delight  they  plainly  showed  on  hearing  me 
scolded. 

After  that  adventure  they  always  called  me  names, 
"Long-Neck"  or  "Black  Shanks"  or  "Ugly  Duck- 
ling" or  something,  and  I  took  to  living  more  and 
more  by  myself. 

It  became  my  chief  pleasure  to  swim  right  out 
in  the  pond  amid  the  high  waves,  and  soon  I  got 
to  know  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  pond  as 
well  as  the  oldest  drake. 

When  I  came  back  after  any  of  these  expeditions 
52 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

I  was  always  blamed  by  my  mother  who  held  me 
up  now  as  an  example  of  all  that  was  wild  and 
wicked  to  my  brothers  and  sisters. 

"You  think  you're  very  clever,"  she  used  to  say, 
"but  one  of  these  days  you'll  be  properly  punished 
for  your  impudence.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how 
you  came  to  be  a  child  of  mine.  I'm  ashamed  of 
you.  You're  not  like  a  nice  obedient  little  duck  at 
all." 

This  made  me  very  wretched,  and  I  told  her  I 
thought  she  was  unkind,  but  she  insisted  that  what 
my  brothers  and  sisters  did  was  right,  and  it  was 
naughty  of  me  not  to  be  like  them. 

One  day,  however,  they  were  all  glad  I  was  not 
like  them.  We  were  out  at  the  edge  of  the  pond, 
and  I  was  sunning  myself  on  the  sand  when  a  rough 
red  terrier  came  rushing  down  at  us.  All  my 
brothers  and  sisters  ran  together  quacking  and  cry- 
ing in  huge  dismay.  And  though  our  mother  went 
in  front  of  them,  it  was  perfectly  plain  that  she, 
too,  was  frightened;  in  fact,  she  quacked  them  all 
into  the  water  as  soon  as  she  could.  But  I  didn't 
see  why  we  should  all  run  from  one  little  animal 
with  four  legs,  and  so  I  puffed  out  my  wings  to 
get  them  ready  to  strike  and  to  shield  my  neck  and 
went  toward  the  dog.     As  soon  as  he  saw  that 

53 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

there  was  someone  not  afraid  of  him,  he  stopped  in 
astonishment  and  began  to  bark.  I  could  not  help 
hissing  myself  a  little  in  defiance  and  to  keep  up 
my  courage. 

"Come  on,"  I  said. 

But  he  jumped  round  me  barking,  and  it  was 
quite  easy  for  me  to  turn  and  face  him  all  the  time. 
In  a  minute  or  two  he  got  tired,  and  then  became  a 
little  ashamed  of  himself,  so  he  pretended  to  see 
something  interesting  in  the  distance  and  scampered 
off.  When  I  turned  to  the  rest  they  were  all  in 
the  water,  and  I  thought  they  would  at  least  thank 
me,  for  by  facing  the  dog  I  had  given  them  the  time 
to  get  into  safety.  They  all  knew  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me  some  of  them  might  have  been  killed. 
I  was  a  little  proud  of  myself,  and  so  was  the  less 
prepared  for  the  return  they  made  me.  As  I  came 
toward  them  after  a  last  look  at  the  terrier,  my 
brother  Bill  called  out: 

"Look  at  'Long  Neck'  strutting  about  and  show- 
ing off." 

And  sister  Jane  cried :  "No  wonder  the  dog  ran 
away,  he's  so  ugly,"  and  they  all  laughed  at  the 
insult. 

"Cowards  needn't  talk  about  being  ugly,"  I  re- 
plied. 

54 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

But  my  mother  snapped  me  up : 

"You  shouldn't  speak  so,"  she  said,  "and  you 
shouldn't  be  so  proud;  it  is  nothing  to  be  proud  of, 
a  long  neck." 

The  contempt  hurt  me  so  much  that  tears  came 
into  my  eyes,  so  I  just  walked  into  the  water  and 
swam  away  out  by  myself.  The  moment  I  passed 
the  usual  limit  of  the  shallow  water,  my  brethren 
all  quacked  loudly,  and  made  mother  watch  me,  and 
she  called  me  to  come  back,  but  my  heart  was  too 
full;  I  cruised  about  by  myself. 

A  little  while  later  she  called  us  all  to  dinner, 
but  I  didn't  come:  I  knew  they  were  going  to  hunt 
about  for  worms  and  pieces  of  meat  and  refuse  in 
the  farmyard,  and  all  that  stuff  used  to  make  me 
sick,  so  I  said  I  wasn't  hungry.  But  my  mother 
cried  back  that  I  was  to  come  in  any  case,  that  I 
soon  would  be  hungry.  I  replied  that  then  I  would 
eat  some  the  reeds  or  the  plants  that  grew  around 
the  island  in  the  middle  of  the  pond,  and  this  was 
a  signal  for  a  new  outburst. 

"He  thinks  he's  very  fine,"  quacked  Bill.  "He 
is  a  vegetarian  and  won't  eat  a  nice  tasty  bit  of 
meat:  he  wants  to  be  different  from  everybody." 

For  answer  I  began  swimming  out  to  the  is- 
land and  let  them  jeer.     From  that  day  on  I  took 

55 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

to  going  about  entirely  by  myself,  and  when  I  was 
lonely  I  just  swallowed  the  tears  and  lived  with  my 
dreams. 

One  day  I  watched  a  hawk  flying  over  the  wood. 
I  thought  it  must  be  fine  to  fly  so  high,  and  I  began 
to  exercise  my  wings  and  soon  took  delight  in  fly- 
ing all  round  the  island  and  circling  higher  and 
higher  above  the  tops  of  the  trees  of  the  great 
wood. 

One  day  my  brothers  saw  me  coming  down  and 
of  course  told  my  mother,  and  she  took  me  seriously 
to  task: 

"You'll  fall  and  kill  yourself  one  day,"  she  said. 
"It  is  no  proper  ambition  for  a  duck;  you  don't 
want  to  make  yourself  hard  and  leathery;  you  ought 
to  be  plump  and  soft  and  juicy." 

I  said  I  hVted  to  fill  myself  like  the  rest  till  I 
couldn't  waddle,  but  at  this  they  all  set  upon  me 
and  began  to  peck  at  me.  Involuntarily  I  lifted 
my  wings,  and  struck,  not  hard,  but  just  to  keep 
them  off.  As  luck  would  have  it  I  hit  Bill,  and 
he  gave  one  loud  squawk  and  turned  over  on  his 
back  as  if  he  were  dead.  My  mother  went  and 
fondled  him  and  called  him  every  endearing  name 
she  could  lay  her  tongue  to,  and  said  I  was  a  great 
brute  to  use  my  strength  like  that,  and  she  would 

56 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me;  I  was  a  beast 
for  injuring  my  brother,  for  only  a  beast  would  do 
such  a  thing;  and  she  hoped  she  would  never  see 
me  again. 

I  had  gone  into  the  water  after  the  quarrel,  but 
this  hurt  me  so  much  that  I  simply  sprang  from 
the  water  and  in  half  a  dozen  strokes  of  my  wings, 
was  out  of  hearing. 

From  that  day  on,  I  only  saw  them  in  the  dis- 
tance. My  life  was  very  lonely:  I  had  no  one  to 
play  with,  no  one  to  talk  to,  no  one  to  tell  what  I 
thought  or  felt.  Indeed,  almost  the  only  amuse- 
ment left  me  was  the  pleasure  of  long  flights.  In 
a  short  time  I  found  I  could  fly  for  hours,  and  the 
fields  of  air  became  my  playground,  but  I  never 
ventured  very  high,  for  I  remembered  what  my 
mother  had  said  about  falling  and  killing  myself. 

How  long  this  life  went  on,  I  don't  know,  but 
I  grew  and  grew  and  grew  so  that  I  was  ashamed 
of  myself.  I  was  bigger  than  all  my  brothers  and 
sisters  put  together,  and  was  not  frightened  of  any- 
thing: for  one  day  a  dog  ran  at  me  and  I  struck 
him  with  my  right  wing  and  he  went  away  limping 
and  yelling  worse  even  than  my  brother  Bill.  This 
filled  me  with  pride,  but  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
had  some  one  to  tell  it  to. 

57 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Indeed,  it  was  the  loneliness  of  my  life  which 
made  me  take  the  next  step.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  pond  there  was  a  farmhouse  and  yard  and  many 
broods  of  hens,  who  were  very  proud  indeed  of 
their  breed;  the  Anglo-Dorkings.  Unable  at  times 
to  stand  the  misery  of  my  lonely  state,  I  crossed 
the  pond  and  took  to  moping  with  these  creatures 
and  listening  to  their  talk. 

An  old  hen,  with  some  half-grown  chickens  was 
the  first  to  speak  to  me,  and  I  paid  her  many  com- 
pliments by  way  of  thanks.  I  couldn't  help  smiling, 
however,  when  she  took  all  my  courtesy  praise  as 
merited,  and  confided  to  me  that  when  young  the 
biggest  rooster  in  the  yard,  an  old  Cochin  with 
hairy  legs,  had  called  her  "The  Angel  of  the 
World."  This  surprised  me,  for  she  was  both 
old  and  ugly  and  could  never,  I  thought,  have  been 
pretty.  Two  of  her  chickens  were  friendly  to  me, 
but  their  brethren  eyed  me  askance  and  at  once  be- 
gan to  rag  me  for  my  thick  legs  and  the  size  and 
shape  of  my  feet. 

The  better  I  knew  the  hens,  the  less  I  liked  them. 
They  were  just  as  base  and  even  dirtier  than  the 
ducks :  they  all  ate  greedily  and  were  cruelly  selfish 
and  indifferent  to  others'  pain. 

One  day,  I  saw  the  two  pullets  I  liked  flirting  with 
58 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

same  young  roosters ;  when  entreated  too  nearly  they 
ran  away,  it  is  true,  but  I  saw  that  their  flight  was 
only  pretended  coldness  put  on  to  increase  the  ardor 
of  the  suitors ;  in  reality  they  were  both  delighted. 

The  Anglo-Dorking  view  of  life  was  just  as  timid 
as  that  of  the  ducks.  When  the  chickens  wanted 
to  stretch  their  wings  and  fly,  the  mother  hen  told 
them  it  was  very  wrong,  and  when  I  argued  with 
her,  I  soon  saw  that  she  only  said  this  in  order  to 
have  all  her  chickens  about  her,  and  so  gratify  at 
once  her  vanity  and  her  mother  love.  If  I  ven- 
tured to  suggest  that  all  one's  powers  should  be 
used,  she  flew  out  at  what  she  called  my  vile  im- 
morality, and  assured  me  that  no  child  of  hers  would 
ever  listen  to  such  mad  unreason. 

One  day  when  the  mother  hen  was  talking  to 
the  old  Cochin,  I  wandered  with  the  rest  down  to 
the  shore  of  the  lake.  There  the  dancing,  cool  water 
tempted  me,  and  I  waded  in  and  swam  about  re- 
joicing in  my  skill  and  strength.  One  or  two  of 
the  chickens  ventured  into  the  water  in  emulation; 
but  they  nearly  got  drowned,  and  I  had  to  spoon 
them  out  with  my  bill.  They  were  wretched  little 
creatures  who  couldn't  even  swim,  and  the  cold 
water  made  them  very  uncomfortable,  and  gave  them 
colds.     When  the  mother  hen  came  down  and  found 

59 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

them,  she  was  very  angry  with  me,  and  told  me 
she  would  have  me  punished  if  I  didn't  behave 
myself  better.  I  found  that  the  great  law  among 
the  Anglo-Dorkings  was  to  do  as  others  did,  for 
if  you  didn't,  they  all  condemned  you  as  vile  and 
bad. 

I  couldn't  help  asking  myself  whether  there  was 
any  reason  in  all  their  condemnations,  and  I  soon 
discovered  that  the  foundation  of  their  morality 
was  self-pride.  They  all  really  believed  that  what- 
ever the  Anglo-Dorkings  did  was  right,  and  the 
law  of  the  Universe.  They  even  fashioned  God 
in  their  own  likeness,  a  superior  sort  of  fowl,  and 
most  of  them  were  sure  that  he  was  a  true  Anglo- 
Dorking. 

They  were  not  only  conceited;  but  curiously  self- 
willed  and  quarrelsome.  They  believed  in  fighting 
about  everything;  they  decided  questions  of  gov- 
ernment by  a  dispute  between  the  two  parties  and 
in  their  courts  matters  of  right  and  wrong,  of  truth 
and  justice  even,  were  settled  by  hiring  paid  liars 
on  either  side  to  falsify  facts  and  give  a  plausible 
coloring  to  patent  absurdities.  They  went  so  far 
as  to  explain  what  they  considered  defects  in  the 
constitution  of  the  Universe  by  inventing  an  evil 
deity  which  they  called  a  devil,  and  by  pretending 
60 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

that  the  god  and  the  devil  were  always  at  war. 
Whenever  any  of  them  got  ill  through  over-eating 
or  drinking  they  ascribed  the  sickness  to  the  malefic 
power  of  the  devil,  and  so  got  rid  of  the  necessity 
of  blaming  themselves  and  reforming  their  conduct. 

Their  chief  amusement  was  a  pitched  battle  be- 
tween two  cocks;  and  their  power  of  eating,  which 
they  carried  to  gluttony,  was  as  highly  esteemed 
among  them  as  courage. 

One  day  they  got  up  a  fight,  and  the  two  cocks 
chosen  for  the  combat  fought  for  nearly  an  hour. 
Very  soon  one  cock  was  over-matched,  but  all  his 
fellows  encouraged  him  to  go  on,  till  he  staggered 
about  the  ring  half  blind,  with  strips  of  skin  hang- 
ing down  his  neck,  and  bleeding  from  a  hundred 
wounds.  It  was  a  dreadful  and  degrading  spec- 
tacle, and  the  faces  of  the  bystanders  showed  such 
eagerness  and  ghoulish  satisfaction  that  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer. 

"Stop,  stop,"  I  cried,  "you  brutes.  Don't  you 
see  that  the  poor  thing  has  no  chance,  and  can  only 
suffer?" 

At  once  all  the  Anglo-Dorkings  fell  upon  me  in 
fury,  and  drove  me  out  of  the  yard. 

The  Anglo-Dorkings  didn't  talk  so  much  or  so 
loudly  as  the  ducks :  indeed,  they  were  rather  silent 

61 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

except  after  a  fight  or  birth  or  some  unusual  oc- 
currence; then  they  crowed  and  bragged  and  flapped 
their  wings  as  loudly  as  ever  they  could. 

The  habit  these  animals  had  of  bragging  and 
crowing  was  absolutely  ridiculous.  When  I  first 
heard  one  of  their  chiefs  crow  for  a  full  quarter  of 
an  hour  about  the  virtues  of  the  Anglo-Dorkings  I 
burst  out  laughing,  which  was  taken  in  very  bad 
part:  I  was  told  that  self-respect  was  natural  in  an 
Anglo-Dorking;  but  it  was  not  their  self-respect 
which  struck  one,  but  their  extravagant  vainglory. 

Gradually  I  came  to  understand  that  their  inor- 
dinate conceit  and  belief  in  their  own  virtues  was 
the  secret  of  their  strength.  It  gave  them  the  power 
of  banding  together  when  threatened  by  any  enemy. 
When  a  rat  once  appeared  in  the  farmyard  and 
wanted  to  make  a  meal  off  one  of  the  little  fluffy 
chicks  the  hens  stood  together  as  a  rampart  in  de- 
fense, and  the  cocks  went  forward  to  attack  the 
intruder,  who  thought  it  best  to  get  away  while  he 
could;  and  even  when  a  hawk  hovered  above  the 
yard,  the  hens,  though  they  retreated,  covered  the 
little  ones  with  their  wings,  protecting  them  at  the 
risk  of  their  own  lives. 

This  conduct  seemed  to  me  admirable.  The 
Anglo-Dorkings  were  strong  from  this  virtue  of 
62 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

union,  and  from  a  power  of  breeding  which  was 
quite  extraordinary.  They  were  always  bringing 
forth  fresh  broods,  which,  as  soon  as  they  grew 
up,  used  to  fend  for  themselves. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  any  virtue  they  pos- 
sessed was  always  obscured  by  some  counterbalanc- 
ing vice,  or  by  some  brainless  hyprocisy  or  make- 
believe  which  robbed  it  of  all  savor.  For  example, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  to  all  animals  that  our  bodily 
desires  should  be  satisfied,  of  course  in  moderation. 
But  the  Anglo-Dorkings  indulged  in  over-eating, 
and  especially  in  over-drinking,  to  such  an  extent 
that  in  middle  age  seven  out  of  ten  of  them  were  un- 
wieldy fat  and  suffering  from  the  diseases  incident 
to  shameful  excess  and  grossness.  I  felt  no  shame 
in  any  natural  desire  so  long  as  it  was  under  due 
restraint  and  subordinated  to  reason  of  some  higher 
purpose;  but  they  pretended  that  hens  had  no  nat- 
ural sex-feeling,  and  insisted  on  bringing  them  up 
in  unreasoning  ignorance  of  their  chief  function. 

For  a  long  time  I  couldn't  find  any  explanation 
of  this  preposterous  and  stupid  convention.  They 
all  talked  of  it  as  the  heart  of  their  morality,  de- 
claring that  chastity  was  the  chiefest  virtue  in  a  pul- 
let, and  innocence  a  sort  of  added  glory,  and  when 
I  protested  that  innocence  was  only  another  name 

63 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

for  ignorance,  and  that  self-control  of  sexual  de- 
sire and  not  chastity  was  the  way  of  virtue,  they 
showed  me  measureless  contempt  and  dislike.  At 
the  same  time  they  were  not  nearly  so  particular  in 
regard  to  the  young  roosters,  but  treated  their  love- 
making  with  an  amused  tolerance :  "Young  roosters 
will  be  young  roosters,"  was  one  of  their  proverbs. 
This  and  the  fact  that  the  hens  had  no  share  what- 
ever in  making  the  laws,  of  course  showed  that  they 
looked  upon  the  hens  as  their  inferiors,  and  wished 
to  keep  them  in  a  servile  condition  for  some  reason 
or  other.  It  was  impossible  to  persuade  the  foolish 
creatures  that  if  they  lifted  the  hens  to  an  equality 
with  themselves,  and  taught  them  instead  of  keep- 
ing them  in  disgraceful  ignorance,  they  would  in- 
tensify affection,  and  ennoble  the  whole  commerce 
of  love.  For  some  vague  reason  the  Anglo-Dorking 
roosters  feared  that  if  the  hens  were  instructed  they 
would  get  out  of  hand  and  cease  to  be  subservient 
instruments  of  their  pleasure,  and  they  exalted  hen- 
purity  and  innocence  and  constancy  into  the  chiefest 
of  virtues,  and  hedged  them  about  with  all  the  sanc- 
tions of  religion,  whereas  in  reality  their  pretended 
virtue  was  nothing  better  than  a  convention  and  ex- 
cuse for  short-sighted  selfishness.  For  the  ignorance 
of  the  pullets  could  in  the  nature  of  things  only  last 
64 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

for  a  short  period  in  youth,  and  the  chastity  was 
sure  to  be  forfeited  before  maturity. 

All  this  hen-morality  seemed  to  me  inept  and 
hypocritical,  and  in  essence  base;  but  the  Anglo- 
Dorkings  resented  any  discussion  of  the  matter  as 
proof  of  viciousness.  Often  and  often  I  remon- 
strated with  them,  and  pointed  out  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  know  all  about  the  sex-function,  and  that  it 
should  be  studied  most  carefully  in  both  sexes  as 
the  central  secret  of  life;  but  even  the  hens  hid  their 
heads  under  their  wings  while  I  spoke,  pretending 
to  be  ashamed,  while  the  roosters  attacked  me  with 
violence.  I  found  that  I  should  have  to  keep  my 
mouth  shut  and  my  reason  in  abeyance  if  I  wanted 
to  live  among  them  in  peace. 

But,  after  all,  it  was  their  conceit  and  clannish 
spirit  which  rendered  it  impossible  for  me  to  live 
with  them.  True,  they  didn't  interfere  with  me 
much,  being  too  intent  on  their  own  affairs;  but  as 
soon  as  I  made  them  aware  of  my  existence  by 
laughing  at  them,  or  by  begging  them  not  to  fight 
by  reasoning  with  them,  they  all  fell  upon  me  with 
one  accord,  their  unanimity  being  really  wonderful. 

The  more  I  knew  of  them  the  clearer  I  saw  that 
the  soul  of  them  was  self-pride.  Surely  there  never 
were  bipeds  so  pleased  with  themselves.     One  cus- 

65 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

torn  they  had  which  was  exquisitely  absurd,  and  yet 
was  plainly  the  outgrowth  of  their  extravagant  self- 
esteem.  There  was  a  poor  skinny  rooster,  who  was 
so  old  that  he  could  scarcely  move;  his  comb  hung 
down  about  his  neck,  and  his  tail  feathers  had  all 
fallen  out,  and  yet  even  the  youngest  and  handsom- 
est hens  fluttered  about  him  in  a  swarm  and  made  up 
to  him,  flattering  him  in  a  silly  and  disgraceful  way. 
I  couldn't  understand  the  reason  of  this,  for  the  old 
rooster  could  never  have  been  even  a  moderately 
good  specimen,  and  was  now  weak-kneed,  decrepit 
and  querulously  vain.  When  the  young  hens  flat- 
tered him,  and  he  tried  to  strut  and  crow,  he  looked 
so  funny  that  I  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or 
cry.  But  the  Anglo-Dorking  hens  all  frowned  on 
me,  and  one  of  them  told  me  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  myself  laughing  at  one  of  their  lords. 

"What  does  that  mean,  a  lord?"  I  asked. 

"One  of  our  rulers,"  she  said. 

"But  why  does  he  rule?"  I  asked.    "Is  he  wiser 
or  better  than  the  rest  of  you?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  she  replied,  "but  we  honor  him 
more." 

"But  why?"  I  asked,  "what  has  he  done?" 

"Nothing,"   she   replied;    "he's   the   son   of  his 
father." 
66 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

"I  suppose  he  is,"  I  answered,  "but  what  did  his 
father  do?" 

"Nothing,"  she  replied,  "that's  his  nobility." 

I  could  not  understand  their  reverence  for  use- 
less, worthless  creatures,  but  merely  to  question  its 
validity  got  one  into  disgrace  with  the  Anglo-Dork- 
ings. They  resented  any  criticism  of  their  beliefs  or 
customs,  and  were  amusingly  certain  that  all  such 
criticism  springs  from  ignorance  or  inferiority. 
My  questions  about  their  lords,  and  the  reverence 
they  paid  them,  caused  them  to  look  on  me  with 
suspicion  and  dislike:  they  began  to  call  me  a  for- 
eigner, and  spoke  of  ducks  as  an  inferior  species  of 
creatures.  I  didn't  mind  this  much,  for  I  felt  no 
desire  to  stand  up  for  the  ducks  who  had  cast  me 
off;  but  when  the  Anglo-Dorkings  began  to  insist 
that  my  admiration  for  what  was  right  and  reason- 
able was  a  sign  of  shallowness,  I  began  to  answer 
back,  and  the  situation  grew  strained.  They  threat- 
ened and  I  scoffed,  for  I  was  young,  and  it  soon  be- 
came apparent  that  there  would  be  an  outbreak  of 
violence.  Curiously  enough,  a  very  small  cause  de- 
termined the  catastrophe. 

I  have  already  told  how  the  ducks  used  to  eat 
scraps  of  offal.  The  custom  seemed  to  me  filthy 
and  unhealthy;  but  they  excused  it  by  pleading  hun- 

67 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ger.  The  Anglo-Dorkings,  however,  went  much 
further ;  they  hung  dead  meat  up  till  it  became  putrid, 
and  then  gobbled  it  down  at  feasts  and  ceremonial 
dinners  And  when  one  turned  from  the  loathsome 
mess  they  used  to  remark  complacently  that  "only 
the  well-born  could  really  enjoy  the  aristocratic 
flavor  of  high  game." 

I  made  fun  of  this  argument,  and  thereby  fell 
into  utter  disgrace.  In  their  anger  they  invented  all 
sorts  of  slanders  about  me :  "I  had  been  expelled 
from  among  the  ducks,"  they  said,  "for  nearly 
killing  one  of  my  smaller  brethren."  "I  lived," 
another  story  ran,  "by  stealing  from  the  game  lard- 
ers." No  invention  was  too  improbable,  no  lie  too 
absurd  for  the  Anglo-Dorkings  to  believe  about  any 
creature  who  ventured  to  criticize  them. 

I  discovered  incidentally  that  they  had  outlawed 
and  expelled  some  of  their  noblest  and  best  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  those  wise  ones  had  dared  to 
find  fault  with  some  of  their  customs.  Even  a  cer- 
tain lord,  who,  in  spite  of  his  opportunities  as  a 
parasite  and  hanger-on,  had  developed  some  indi- 
viduality and  courage,  was  disgraced  for  making 
fun  of  them,  and  hounded  out  of  the  country  as  im- 
moral because  he  couldn't  be  sufficiently  hypocritical 
or  servile  to  win  their  favor  by  flattery. 
68 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

At  length  their  animosity  to  me  became  active.  I 
was  challenged  to  fight  by  this  cock  and  by  that,  and 
as  soon  as  I  flew  up  high  to  evade  attack  they  called 
me  a  coward,  and  when  I  struck  with  the  elbows  of 
my  wings,  with  which  I  was  able  to  hit  hard,  I  was 
set  upon  by  the  whole  crowd  for  striking  unfairly, 
and  was  so  bepicked  and  bespurred  that  I  was  glad 
to  get  away  with  whole  bones.  I  fled  for  my  life 
and  they  stood  together  in  a  crowd  and  flapped 
their  wings  in  triumph,  and  crowed  in  unison  for 
some  time  after  I  had  passed  out  of  their  sight. 

Life  soon  became  tragic  to  me  in  its  loneliness. 
The  ducks  feared  me;  the  Anglo-Dorkings  hated 
me;  and  when  I  passed  to  the  other  end  of  the  pond 
and  met  the  geese  I  fared  but  little  better.  True, 
they  were  not  nearly  so  clannish  as  the  Anglo-Dork- 
ings; they  had  more  respect,  too,  for  originality  and 
individuality.  I  could  never  make  out  why  they 
were  called  "geese,"  or  rather  why  the  word  "goose" 
among  the  hens  had  come  to  mean  something  fool- 
ish. For  really  these  geese  were  more  intelligent 
and  better  educated  than  the  Anglo-Dorkings,  or 
even  the  Cochins,  and  had  a  far  keener  sense  of 
what  was  reasonable  as  opposed  to  custom  and  con- 
vention. Taking  them  all  in  all,  I  thought  the  geese 
superior  to  the  Anglo-Dorkings  in  many  respects: 

69 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

they  were  more  civilized,  more  courteous,  with  a 
higher  intellectual  life. 

In  particular  they  found  the  hen-morality  as  ab- 
surd as  I  did;  and  the  hypocrisy  and  self-applause 
of  the  Anglo-Dorkings  were  as  distasteful  to  them 
as  to  me.  I  might  have  lived  among  the  geese  in 
comparative  happiness  had  I  happened  to  be  born  a 
goose,  but  their  language  was  very  difficult  to  me, 
and  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  I  never  entirely  mas- 
tered it  or  made  it  my  own. 

I  took  to  living  more  and  more  by  myself,  and 
resolved  not  to  depend  in  any  degree  upon  others. 
After  all,  I  used  to  say,  consoling  myself,  the  sky 
does  not  belong  to  the  Anglo-Dorkings,  and  the 
fields  of  air  and  the  sunshine  by  day,  and  the  winds 
and  stars  by  night  were  as  much  mine  as  theirs.  If 
they  had  made  me  an  outcast  and  pariah,  what,  after 
all,  did  it  matter?  My  life  was  mine  to  live  as  I 
chose,  and  the  days  were  mine  to  spend  nobly  if  I 
pleased.  And  so  I  took  to  the  life  of  a  solitary,  and 
grew  strong  in  loneliness,  though  always  a  little  sad. 

One  day  I  was  out  in  the  pond  when  something 
made  me  look  up,  and  I  saw  a  skein  of  great  birds 
coming  down  the  sky;  the  sun  turned  their  wings 
to  silver.  When  they  neared  the  wood  I  thought 
they  would  alight,  but  at  the  last  moment  they  rose 
70 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

again  to  clear  it,  and  soon  went  high  up  in  the  blue, 
and  dwindled  away,  but  one  that  seemed  weary 
lagged  behind  and  came  beating  down  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  at  last  splashed  in  the  water  close  to  the 
island.  To  my  astonishment  it  was  just  like  me,  but 
evidently  very  tired,  so  I  went  over  to  it,  and  when 
I  came  near  I  saw  that  it  was  more  graceful  than 
I  was,  with  slighter  neck  and  more  rounded  breast, 
so  I  said: 

"Good  day,  miss,  you  are  an  Ugly  Duckling,  too." 

She  turned  on  me  at  once.  "Duckling,  indeed,  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about;  I  am  a  swan, 
as  you  are." 

"Am  I,  indeed?"  I  asked,  in  amazement,  and  then 
in  a  breath,  "what  is  a  swan?" 

"The  finest  bird  in  the  world." 

"Really?"  I  cried,  "I  thought  ducks  and  hens 
were  the  finest  birds." 

"Little  tame  beasts,"  she  said,  "fit  for  nothing 
but  to  quack  and  crow  and  breed.  I  suppose  this 
little  pond  is  theirs :  I  would  never  have  come  into 
it  if  I  hadn't  been  very  tired  from  the  long  flight." 

"Why  do  you  call  the  swans  the  finest  birds  in 
the  world?"  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"Because  we  are  the  Children  of  Light,"  she  re- 

7i 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

plied  proudly,  "and  follow  the  Sun  round  the 
world." 

"Are  you  going  there  now?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  to  the  other  side  of  the  world,"  she  replied 
proudly,  "to  the  land  of  sunshine;  but  now  I  am 
tired  and  hungry,"  she  added,  with  a  little  smile. 

"Oh,  come  with  me,"  I  said,  "and  I'll  show  you 
where  you  can  get  such  nice  things  to  eat,"  and  I 
guided  her  round  the  island  to  my  quiet  eating  place 
under  the  trees,  and  there  she  ate  and  drank  so  daint- 
ily I  could  have  kissed  her:  and  afterwards  she 
preened  herself  and  made  her  toilet,  and  I  watched 
her  with  eyes  rounded  with  admiration.  I  saw  she 
was  very  tired,  so  I  asked  her  wouldn't  she  like  to 
sleep,  and  led  her  again  to  the  quietest  place  in  the 
whole  pond,  and  she  said  I  must  wake  her  before  the 
sun  got  low,  for  she  must  join  the  rest  that  night  at 
a  lake  far  away.  I  kept  watch  while  she  slept,  but 
all  the  time  my  heart  was  burning  within  me,  for  I 
knew  if  she  went  away  and  left  me  I  should  die  of 
grief.  Life  by  myself  seemed  ten  times  as  lonely 
and  miserable  since  I  had  seen  her  and  admired  her 
delicious  beauty,  and  I  simply  couldn't  bear  her  to 
go  away  and  forget  me.  Tears  came  burning  into 
my  eyes  at  the  thought.  Besides,  I,  too,  had  always 
hated  the  darkness  and  gloom  of  the  sad  Northern 
72 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

winter;  though  I  had  been  taught  it  was  wrong  to 
love  the  light  as  I  did.  Now,  however,  that  I  knew 
it  was  right,  I  was  filled  with  the  desire  to  fly  far 
away  and  see  the  world  and  have  great  Adventures; 
for  I,  too,  was  a  Child  of  the  Light. 

Suddenly  the  resolve  came;  I  would  fly  away  with 
her.  My  heart  beat  in  my  throat  with  the  hope.  I 
could  remain  on. the  wing  for  hours  and  hours,  all 
day  long  if  I  chose,  for  I  was  very  hard  and  strong, 
thanks  to  my  lonely  life.  The  thought  of  her  com- 
panionship thrilled  me  and  encouraged  me,  and 
caressing  her  in  my  heart  as  she  slept  I  resolved  to 
go  with  her  if  she  would  let  me  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  I  felt  a  little  sorry  about  leaving  the  ducks, 
but,  after  all,  they  didn't  care  for  me,  and  I  loved 
the  newcomer  in  quite  a  different  way.  She  seemed 
to  me  grace  itself  and  beautiful  exceedingly,  and 
proud  as  a  queen,  and  I  wondered  if  she  would  ever 
let  me  touch  her  even  with  the  tips  of  my  wings. 

While  I  was  cruising  about  her  quite  silently  and 
watching  her,  the  swan  awoke  and  at  once,  to  my 
astonishment,  began  another  toilet.  She  flittered 
the  water  over  her  shoulders  and  laughed  as  the 
drops  ran  over  her  breast  and  sparkled  on  her  pearly 
throat. 

73 


[The  Veils  of  Isis 

I  asked  her  was  she  quite  rested,  and  she  said 
gaily : 

"Oh,  yes";  and  I  wanted  to  know  why  she  hadn't 
slept  till  I  woke  her,  and  she  said  she  supposed  it 
was  the  anxiety,  because  now  she  had  rested,  she 
would  have  to  go.  She  thanked  me  prettily  for  the 
food  I  had  given  her  and  said  that  really  my  resting 
place  near  the  island  was  very  sweet. 

Emboldened  by  her  kindness,  I  asked  her  could  I 
go  with  her?    She  turned  to  me  and  said: 

"Of  course,  if  you  like,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
you." 

That  was  not  what  I  wanted,  so  with  a  lump  in 
my  throat,  I  asked:    "Would  you  like  me  to  go?" 

She  looked  at  me  a  little  while  as  if  considering, 
which  frightened  me  quite  cold,  but  at  length  she 
said  bravely : 

"I  should  like  you  to  come  because  you  are  a  man 
swan,  and  the  lake  on  the  other  side  of  the  world 
is  such  a  long,  long  way  off  and  the  others  are  all 
quite  old,  and  I  get  a  little  frightened  flying  in  the 
dark  all  by  myself.  Sometimes  I  scarcely  know 
what  to  do  when  the  wind  gets  high  and  I  am  away 
up  out  of  sight  of  earth." 

"Oh,  that  must  be  fine!"  I  cried.  "I'm  very 
strong  and  should  like  it,  above  everything :  it  is  so 

74 


The  Ugly  Duckling 

good  of  you  to  let  me  go  with  you :  I  will  do  every- 
thing for  you:  I  will  be  your  servant  and  when 
you  sleep  I  will  cruise  round  you  to  protect  you, 
you  are  so  lovely,"  I  added,  half  afraid. 

She  shook  her  head  a  little  at  that,  and  said  she 
didn't  like  compliments.  But  I  don't  think  she  was 
really  displeased,  for  the  next  moment  she  looked  at 
me  again  with  kindness. 

"We  must  go  now,"  she  said;  "we  are  wasting 
time,"  and  the  next  moment  she  sprang  out  of  the 
water  into  the  air  and  I  followed.  Up  and  up  and 
up  she  went  in  great  rings,  and  I  beside  her  wing- 
beat  for  wing-beat,  but  I  had  to  restrain  myself  and 
beat  slowly;  for  I  was  much  the  stronger  and  did 
not  want  to  hurry  her.  And  after  we  had  gone 
steadily  up  and  up  for  some  time,  she  cried  to  me: 

"Look  down  now  and  take  leave  of  your  duck 
pond." 

And  I  looked  down  and  the  great  height  fright- 
ened me,  for  the  pond  was  nothing  but  a  gray  speck 
in  the  green,  miles  and  miles  below,  and  my  heart 
failed  me,  for  I  remembered  what  my  mother  had 
said,  that  I  should  fall  one  day  and  kill  myself,  and 
for  a  moment  I  fluttered  in  the  air,  but  as  the  swan 
turned  her  head  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  I  struck 
out  again,  for  I  was  ashamed  of  my  fear.     I  went 

75 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

right  up  to  her  with  strong  wing-stroke  exulting,  for 
she  was  beside  me,  and  I  felt  it  was  better  a  thousand 
times  to  be  killed  falling  from  heaven  than  to  live 
in  a  duck  pond. 


76 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

AN  old-fashioned  square  house  on  Long  Island, 
set  in  a  clearing  of  pine  trees:  a  break  in 
the  cliff  shows  a  little  triangle  of  sandy  beach  and 
the  waters  of  the  Sound  dancing  in  the  moonlight. 
Half  a  dozen  men  are  sitting  about  on  the  stoop 
looking  over  the  silvery  waters. 

The  evening  papers  had  published  an  account  of 
Mrs.  Amory's  will  which  showed  that  she  had  left 
half  a  million  dollars  to  a  nursing  home  for  mill- 
children  in  Philadelphia.  The  news  set  us  all  talk- 
ing of  the  wonderful  work  she  had  done  and  her 
self-sacrifice.  Most  of  us  assumed  that  it  was  a 
religious  motive  that  had  induced  this  rich  and,  it 
was  said,  handsome  woman  to  give  years  of  her 
life  to  improving  the  lot  of  the  city's  waifs  and 
strays. 

The  ladies  had  left  us  and  gone  up  to  bed;  but 
we  still  discussed  the  matter.  Suddenly  Charlie 
Railton  turned  to  Judge  Barnett  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  State  of  New  York,  who  sat  with  his 
chair  tilted  back  against  the  wall  ruminating. 

79 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"Say,  Judge,  what  do  you  think  of  it  anyway? 
I'd  like  to  hear  your  opinion." 

"I  have  no  opinion  on  the  matter,"  replied  the 
Judge,  taking  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  speak- 
ing very  slowly,  "I  don't  know  women  well  enough 
to  be  sure  about  anything  where  they're  concerned." 

"Plead  guilty,  Judge,"  cried  Railton,  who  was 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  "plead  guilty  and  throw 
yourself  on  the  mercy  of  the  Court:  I  guess  you 
know  women  better  than  most  of  us,  and  they're 
pretty  easy  to  know,  it  seems  to  me." 

"I  used  to  think  so,  too,"  said  the  Judge,  "but 
I  got  kind  o'  puzzled  once  and  I've  never  been 
sure  since." 

"How  was  that,  Judge?"  cried  our  host,  one  of 
the  boldest  speculators  on  the  New  York  Stock  Ex- 
change, scenting  a  mystery. 

"It's  a  long  story,"  said  Barnett  deliberately, 
"and  it's  pretty  late  already." 

We  all  protested  and  called  for  the  story  and 
the  Judge  began: 

"It  takes  one  a  long  way  back,  I'm  afraid;  back 
to  the  late  sixties,  and  it's  autobiographical,  too;  I 
guess  it  has  every  fault." 

"Go  on,"  we  cried  in  chorus. 
80 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

After  being  admitted  to  the  Bar — he  resumed — 
I  went  up  to  my  mother's  place  in  Maine,  to  rest. 
Along  in  the  winter  I  got  pneumonia  on  a  shooting- 
trip  and  could  not  shake  it  off.  I  crawled  through 
the  summer  and  then  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to 
California  or  somewhere  warm  for  the  winter;  I 
had  had  enough  of  snow  and  blizzards.  I  spent  the 
winter  in  Santa  Barbara  and  got  as  fit  as  a  young 
terrier. 

In  the  spring  I  went  to  'Frisco  and  there  in  a 
gymnasium  and  boxing  saloon  got  to  know  a  man 
who  was  about  the  best  athlete  I  ever  struck.  Win- 
terstein  might  have  been  heavyweight  champion  if 
he  had  trained,  and  he  was  handsome  enough  for  a 
stage  lover.  He  was  just  under  six  feet  in  height, 
with  bold  expression  and  good  features;  dark  hair 
in  little  curls  all  over  his  head  and  agate-dark  eyes 
which  grew  black  when  he  was  excited  or  angry. 

I  found  he  was  a  better  man  physically  than  I 
was,  and  that  was  the  beginning  of  our  friendship; 
we  soon  became  intimate  and  he  told  me  all  about 
his  early  life.  He  was  born  in  the  North  of  Eng- 
land, and  became  a  sailor  in  the  English  navy,  but 
he  could  not  stand  the  rigid  discipline,  poor  food, 
and  harsh  treatment.  He  deserted  in  Quebec  while 
still  a  lad,  and  made  his  way  to  New  York.     He 

81 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

had  not  had  much  education,  but  he  had  improved 
what  he  had  by  reading.  Like  most  men  of  in- 
telligence who  have  not  had  a  college  training,  he 
set  great  store  by  books  and  book  learning,  and 
got  me  to  help  him  with  mathematics.  He  had  a 
captain's  certificate,  it  appeared,  but  he  wanted  to 
know  navigation  thoroughly;  he  surprised  me  one 
day  by  telling  me  he  owned  a  little  vessel  which  was 
nearly  ready  for  sea. 

"I  have  just  had  her  overhauled,"  he  said;  "would 
you  like  to  come  and  see  her?  She's  lying  off 
Meiggs's." 

"What  do  you  do  with  her?"  I  questioned,  full 
of  curiosity. 

"I  go  pearling,"  he  said;  "pearls  are  found  nearly 
all  round  the  Gulf  of  California.  The  fisher-folk 
rake  in  the  oysters  and  lay  them  on  the  beach  till 
they  get  bad  and  open  of  themselves.  The  chil- 
dren collect  the  pearls  and  keep  them  until  I  come 
round.  I  paid  for  the  craft  and  have  a  couple  of 
thousand  dollars  put  by  from  last  year's  work." 

"But  where  did  you  learn  about  pearls?"  I  asked. 

"I  worked  for  a  man  once  and  picked  it  up. 
Sometimes  I  make  a  little  mistake,  but  not  often. 
You  see  we  go  to  out-of-the-way  places  where  we 
82 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

reckon  to  give  about  a  quarter  what  the  pearls  are 
worth.     That  leaves  a  wide  margin  for  mistakes." 

"But  I  had  no  idea  that  there  were  pearls  in 
the  Gulf,"  I  said. 

"Why  not  come  along  and  see  for  yourself,"  he 
said.  "I'll  be  starting  in  a  week.  The  schooner 
had  to  have  her  bottom  cleaned  and  the  copper  re- 
paired, that's  what's  hung  me  up  for  this  last  month 
or  so.  Now  I'm  about  right  for  another  year.  If 
you'd  like  to  come,  I'd  be  glad  to  have  you." 

"And  make  me  mate?"  I  asked  laughing. 

"Commander,"  he  replied  seriously,  "and  you 
shall  have  ten  per  cent,  of  the  profits." 

"I'll  think  it  over  and  let  you  know,"  was  my 
answer. 

The  adventure  tempted  me,  the  strange  life  and 
work,  the  novelty  of  the  thing:  I  resolved  to  go 
pearling. 

I  went  with  Winterstein  to  the  wharf  and  he 
showed  his  craft  to  me.  She  looked  like  a  toy 
vessel,  a  little  schooner,  a  fifty-footer  of  about  forty 
tons.  She  sat  on  the  water  like  a  duck,  a  little  New 
England  model  with  beautiful  lines.  Winterstein 
introduced  me  to  his  first  mate,  Donkin,  and  his 
second  mate,  Crawford.  Donkin  was  a  big  lump  of 
a  fellow,  six  feet  two  in  height,  broad  in  proportion 

83 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

m 

and  brawny,  a  good  seaman.  Crawford  I  soon 
found  out  was  an  even  better  sailor  and  more  in- 
telligent, though  of  only  average  strength. 

"What  about  the  crew?"  I  asked  Winterstein 
when  we  were  alone  in  the  little  cabin. 

"I  want  one  more  man  and  a  boy,"  he  replied 
laughing  at  my  surprised  face. 

"But,"  I  retorted,  "you  can't  have  three  officers 
and  one  man." 

"It's  like  this,"  he  said:  "Donkin  has  only  been 
a  second  mate,  but  he  gets  a  first  mate's  certificate 
provided  he  stays  with  me  a  year,  and  the  same 
thing  with  Crawford.  The  work  is  not  hard,"  he 
added  apologetically,  "they  get  good  wages  and  a 
lift  in  rank  and  it  suits  them,  and  so  I  get  first- 
rate  work  cheap.  Four  or  five  men  can  manage 
this  craft  easy  so  long  as  we  don't  strike  a  cyclone 
and  there  ain't  much  dirty  weather  in  the  Gulf." 

A  couple  of  days  later  Winterstein  told  me  shyly 
that  he  had  been  married  recently,  and  after  I 
had  congratulated  him,  he  insisted  that  I  must  come 
and  be  introduced  to  the  prettiest  girl  in  California. 
All  the  way  uptown  he  praised  his  young  wife,  and 
the  praise  I  found  was  not  extravagant.  Mrs. 
Winterstein  was  charming:  tall  and  fair  with  Irish 
gray  eyes;  her  shyness  and  love  of  Winterstein  put 
84 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

a  sort  of  aureole  about  her.  She  was  of  Irish 
parentage:  before  her  marriage  her  name  had  been 
Rose  O'Connor.  Nothing  would  do  but  I  must 
call  her  Rose  at  once.  The  pair  lived  in  a  little 
frame  house  on  the  side  of  the  bluff,  where  now 
there  is  a  famous  park.  An  old  Irishwoman  did 
the  chores  for  Rose  and  mothered  and  scolded  her 
just  as  she  had  done  before  her  marriage.  Rose, 
I  learned,  had  been  a  teacher  in  the  High  School. 
In  the  next  few  days  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  her. 
She  was  doing  up  the  cabin  and  buying  knick-knacks 
for  the  cabin  and  tiny  stateroom,  and  I  naturally  ran 
her  errands  and  tried  to  save  her  trouble. 

Whenever  I  ventured  a  shy  compliment  she  al- 
ways told  me  I  must  see  her  sister  Daisy,  who  was 
at  Sacramento  in  a  finishing  school.  Daisy  was 
lovely  and  Daisy  was  clever;  there  was  no  one  like 
Daisy  in  her  sister's  eyes. 

****** 

It  was  a  perfect  June  morning  with  just  air 
enough  to  make  the  sun  dance  on  the  ripples,  when 
at  length  we  were  all  ready  on  board  and  starting 
out  of  the  bay. 

Our  crew  had  been  completed  by  a  young  darky 
called  Abraham  Lincoln,  who  at  once  took  over  the 

85 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

cooking,  and  a  sailor  called  Dyer,  who  was  a  little 
lame,  but  handy  enough  at  his  work. 

The  first  part  of  the  cruise  was  uneventful:  it 
might  have  been  a  yachting  trip.  Day  after  day 
we  sailed  along  in  delightful  sunshine,  with  a  six- 
or  eight-knot  breeze.  The  perfect  conditions  would 
have  been  monotonous  had  we  not  amused  ourselves 
with  fishing.  One  day  I  remember  we  got  rather 
rough  weather  and  when  Winterstein,  Donkin  and 
myself  took  our  bearings  next  day  we  found  that 
we  had  been  swept  some  distance  to  the  westward. 

It  was  Crawford  who  solved  the  enigma  for  us. 
He  told  us  there  was  a  current  called  the  West  Wind 
Drift,  which  sets  across  the  Pacific  from  East  to 
West  as  if  making  for  'Frisco  and  then  flows  down 
the  coast  from  North  to  South  till  it  meets  the 
North  Equatorial  current  which  comes  from  the 
South  and  sweeps  out  to  the  West,  carrying  the  tail 
end,  so  to  speak,  of  the  Drift  with  it.  Where  the 
two  opposing  currents  meet  off  the  South  Californian 
coast,  one  often  finds  a  heavy  sea  and  variable 
cross-winds.  But  as  soon  as  we  turned  into  the 
Gulf  the  fine  weather  began  again. 

The  trading  which  I  had  hoped  would  be  full 
of  adventure  turned  out  to  be  quite  simple  and 
tame.  We  ran  along  the  shore,  stopping  wherever 
86 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

there  was  a  village.  Usually  we  dropped  anchor 
pretty  close  in  and  rowed  ashore.  At  nine  places 
out  of  ten  Winterstein  was  known.  The  fishermen 
brought  out  their  little  cotton-bags  of  pearls  and 
we  bought  them.  Curiously  enough,  the  black  pearl, 
so  esteemed  to-day,  had  then  no  value  at  all.  When- 
ever we  bought  a  packet  of  white  pearls,  the  black 
ones  were  thrown  in  as  not  worth  estimating.  The 
pink  pearls,  too,  had  no  price,  unless  they  were 
exceptionally  large  or  beautifully  shaped,  and  even 
then  they  were  very  cheap.  I  began  to  collect  the 
black  pearls  to  make  a  necklace  for  Mrs.  Winter- 
stein. I  was  half  in  love  with  her  I  think  from 
the  beginning.  She  was  not  only  very  pretty  but 
laughter-loving,  and  girlish,  and  her  little  matronly 
airs  sat  drolly  upon  her.  Everyone  on  board  liked 
her,  I  don't  know  why.  I  suppose  she  wanted  to 
please  us  all;  for  she  was  full  of  consideration  for 
everyone.  I  have  never  seen  any  woman  who  ap- 
pealed so  unconsciously  and  so  directly  to  the  heart, 
and  her  happiness  was  something  that  had  to  be 
seen  to  be  believed.  She  simply  adored  her  hus- 
band, waited  on  him  hand  and  foot,  and  pampered 
all  his  little  selfishnesses.  She  was  only  unhappy 
when  away  from  him,  or  when  it  was  rough  weather 
and  she  was  sea-sick.     Curiously  enough,  in  spite  of 

87 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

the  long  cruise,  she  never  became  a  good  sailor. 
In  fine  weather  she  was  all  right,  but  the  moment 
The  Rose  commenced  to  bob  about,  Mrs.  Winter- 
stein  used  to  retire  to  her  cabin. 

I  told  no  one  about  the  necklace.  I  simply  an- 
nexed all  the  black  pearls  and  determined  to  get 
them  strung  together  as  soon  as  we  got  back  to 
'Frisco.  I  never  landed  without  asking  after  them, 
and  even  went  so  far  as  to  buy  some  which  were 
being  used  by  the  native  children  as  trinkets.  I 
remember  once  coming  across  an  extraordinary 
specimen  as  big  as  a  marble,  perfectly  round,  and 
with  a  perfect  skin.  We  were  passing  a  cabin 
where  a  couple  of  mestizo  girls  of  fourteen  and 
sixteen  were  seated  on  the  sand  playing  a  game  of 
bones,  which  I  think  must  be  as  old  as  the  world, 
for  the  Greeks  knew  it  as  astragalos.  You  throw 
the  round  bones  up  into  the  air  and  turn  your  hand 
round  quickly  and  catch  them  on  the  back.  Among 
the  five  bones  was  a  black  pearl,  which  I  admired  at 
once  and  bought  for  a  quarter,  I  think.  I  can 
still  see  the  half-naked  girl-child  as  she  handed  it 
to  me.  She  stood  on  one  leg  like  a  stork,  and  with 
her  right  foot  rubbed  her  left  ankle,  while  glancing 
at  me  half-shyly  out  of  great  liquid  dark  eyes.  She 
had  only  a  red  calico  wrap  about  her  body,  out  of 
88 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

the  folds  of  which  one  small  round  amber  breast 
showed:  but  she  was  evidently  unconscious  of  her 
nudity — a  child  in  mind,  a  woman  in  body. 

I  have  absolutely  nothing  interesting  to  tell  of 
this  first  cruise.  We  stopped  once  where  the  sea 
must  have  receded  from  the  land,  for  the  town  was 
some  four  miles  inland.  I  have  forgotten  the  name 
of  the  place,  but  it  was  quite  a  town — some  two  or 
three  thousand  inhabitants.  The  smell  of  the 
oysters  on  the  sea  beach,  I  remember,  was  over- 
powering. Thousands  and  thousands  of  bushels 
had  been  left  to  rot.  Our  harvest  of  pearls  here 
was  so  large  that  Winterstein  resolved  to  go  back 
to  'Frisco  at  once  and  market  his  goods.  We  were 
all  tired  of  fish  and  biscuits,  varied  with  sow-belly 
fiery  with  salt  and  black  with  age. 

The  return  trip  was  just  as  uneventful  as  the 
voyage  out.  Winterstein's  profits  were  beyond  all 
his  former  experiences.  After  paying  all  expenses, 
giving  me  my  tenth,  and  dividing  another  tenth  be- 
tween the  two  mates,  he  cleared  up  something  like 
six  thousand  dollars  for  two  months'  work. 

He  was  naturally  eager  to  get  to  sea  again,  but 
there  was  a  difficulty.  Rose  found  that  her  sister 
had  left  Sacramento,  and  had  come  to  live  in  'Frisco. 
She  had  got  work,  too,  I  gathered,  in  a  shop  and 

89 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

refused  absolutely  to  be  a  schoolgirl  any  longer  or 
to  accept  her  sister's  advice.  Rose  was  anxious 
about  her  and  resolved  to  take  her  on  board  with 
us  for  the  next  cruise.  But  for  a  long  time  Miss 
Daisy  refused  to  come :  she  preferred,  it  appeared, 
to  be  entirely  on  her  own  and  it  was  only  when 
Winterstein  joined  Rose  in  solicitation  that  she 
finally  consented.  I  was  rather  eager  to  see  this 
very  self-willed  and  independent  young  lady. 

I  was  quite  ready  for  another  trip.  It  would 
please  my  mother,  I  thought,  if  I  went  back  with  a 
couple  of  thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket,  and  I  had 
got  my  black  pearls  strung  as  a  necklace  for  Rose. 

Winterstein  warned  me  that  the  next  trip  would 
perhaps  not  be  so  profitable,  as  he  would  leave  out 
the  chief  places,  which  he  had  already  touched  at, 
and  go  to  the  more  remote  stations. 

"Pearling,"  he  said,  "is  like  everything  else  in 
life — the  easiest  work  is  the  best  paid."  His  phil- 
osophy was  not  very  deep  though  his  observation 
was  exact  enough. 

We  arranged  to  start  one  afternoon.  I  had 
been  in  town  making  purchases.  It  was  wretched 
weather.  A  Nor'easter  had  sprung  up  and  blew 
sand  through  the  streets  in  clouds.  I  only  hoped 
that  the  departure  would  be  postponed.  I  found 
90 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

Winterstein  waiting  impatiently  for  me,  and  his 
wife's  sister,  too,  was  on  deck  in  spite  of  the  rough 
weather.  Winterstein  introduced  me  to  her.  Daisy 
O'Connor  did  not  make  much  impression  on  me  at 
first;  she  was  girlish-young  and  did  not  seem  to 
be  anything  like  so  good-looking  as  her  sister.  True, 
she  had  large  dark-brown  eyes  and  good  features, 
but  she  was  smaller  than  Rose,  and  without  Rose's 
brilliant  coloring  or  charm  of  appeal.  She  treated 
me  rather  coolly,  I  thought.  Winterstein  seemed 
to  be  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  off. 

"Why  not  put  off  going  till  to-morrow?"  I  asked. 
"As  soon  as  we  get  outside  she'll  duck  into  it  half- 
way up  her  jib." 

"To-morrow's  Friday,"  remarked  Miss  Daisy. 

"Surely  you're  not  superstitious?"  I  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  the  girl,  and  a  peculiar 
character  of  decision  came  into  her  face  and  voice. 

"You  know  the  old  rhyme?" 

She  questioned  me  with  a  look,  and  I  repeated  the 
old  chanty : 

Monday  for  health 

And  Tuesday  for  wealth 

And  Wednesday  the  best  day  of  all, 

Thursday  for  losses 

And  Friday  for  crosses 

And  Saturday  no  day  at  all  .  .  . 

91 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"Thursday  will  be  a  bad  start,"  I  added. 

"I  like  a  bad  start,"  she  retorted;  "a  good  start 
often  means  a  bad  ending."  She  spoke  bitterly,  I 
thought. 

"A  resolute  little  thing,"  I  said  to  myself  care- 
lessly, while  getting  into  my  sea-togs. 

In  five  minutes  the  anchor  was  up  and  the  sails 
set  and  we  were  beating  out  to  sea  in  the  teeth  of 
the  gale.  In  the  bay  the  wind  came  in  gusts,  but 
as  we  held  toward  Lime  Point  it  settled  down  to 
a  steady  drive  which  heeled  us  over  till  the  lee 
scuppers  were  under  water.  Every  moment  it  blew 
harder.  When  we  went  about  and  opened  out  the 
Golden  Gate,  The  Rose  went  over,  over  till  it  looked 
as  if  she  would  turn  turtle.  I  laid  hold  of  the  main 
rigging  to  keep  my  feet  and  get  the  spindrift  out 
of  my  eyes.  Ten  feet  from  me  was  the  girl  with 
one  hand  on  a  stay,  her  slight  figure  braced  against 
the  gale,  evidently  enjoying  the  experience.  A  dif- 
ferent voyage  from  the  first,  I  thought  to  myself, 
and  under  different  auspices.  But  the  work  and 
danger  stopped  thought.  As  soon  as  we  were  out 
of  the  Golden  Gate  and  clear  of  Point  Bonita  the 
sea  began  to  pile  up  and  break  in  masses  on  the 
bar.  We  were  in  for  a  dirty  night.  In  five  minutes 
we  were  all  wet  to  the  skin.  The  girl  had  gone 
92 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

below.  The  companion,  skylights  and  hatches  were 
all  battened  down  and  made  snug  and  not  a  mo- 
ment too  soon.  The  sea  on  the  bar  was  terrific: 
again  and  again  the  green  water  buried  the  decks, 
but  as  soon  as  we  had  got  outside  and  turned  her 
bows  southward,  the  gale  came  fair  on  the  quarter 
and  the  little  "saucer"  as  I  called  The  Rose  made 
good  weather  of  it,  lifting  easily  to  the  great  comb- 
ers and  swooping  along  their  shoulders  into  the 
night,  for  all  the  world  like  some  white  sea-bird. 

The  coming  on  board  of  Daisy  O'Connor  altered 
everything.  I  was  too  young  at  the  time  to  ex- 
plain, or  even  understand  what  was  taking  place. 
The  interest  which  used  to  center  in  Rose  and  Win- 
terstein  and  abaft  the  companion,  now  followed 
Daisy  all  over  the  ship.  For  the  girl  was  never 
long  in  one  place  and  divided  her  favors  impar- 
tially among  all  the  men  on  board.  Now  she 
walked  his  watch  talking  to  Donkin,  or  leaned 
against  the  rail  chatting  to  Crawford,  or  sat  dis- 
cussing a  book  with  me.  She  was  less  with  Winter- 
stein  than  with  any  of  us,  which  was  not  remarked, 
because  the  weather  still  continued  boisterous  and 
gave  him  a  good  deal  to  do  between  the  stateroom 
in  which  his  wife  spent  most  of  her  time  and  the 
wave-swept  deck. 

93 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

In  every  way  this  cruise  was  different  from  the 
first,  less  pleasant,  if  more  exciting.  The  first  thing 
I  noticed  was  that  Donkin,  who  appeared  to  like 
Winterstein  on  the  first  voyage,  now  disliked  him. 
Winterstein  spoke  sharply  to  him  one  day  about 
the  way  the  jib  was  sitting: 

"That  jib's  shivering,"  he  said,  "it's  not  set  flat, 
take  a  pull  at  it." 

Donkin  looked  at  him  and  said  sulkily: 
"That's  because  she's  steered  too  free." 
"That's  all  you  know  about  it,"  replied  Winter- 
stein cheerfully,   "at  any  rate  take  a  pull  at  the 
sheet." 

The  look  of  contempt  and  anger  which  Donkin 
threw  at  the  skipper  surprised  and  shocked  me.  I 
did  not  even  then  notice  that  Daisy  was  standing  to 
windward  almost  between  them.  It  only  occurred 
to  me  long  afterward.  The  Rose,  which  had  been 
the  most  comfortable  craft  in  the  world,  had  be- 
come an  ordinary  sort  of  vessel. 

The  weather  was  very  unsettled;  usually  we  had 
more  than  enough  wind  and  a  heavy  lop  of  sea, 
and  the  little  craft,  which  was  very  light  and  shal- 
low as  a  saucer,  tossed  about  like  a  cork. 

Three  days  out  of  four  Rose  O'Connor  kept  to 
her  berth,  and  never  showed  at  all  even  at  meal 
94 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

times,  and  Daisy  O'Connor  took  her  place  on  the 
deck  and  in  the  cabin  as  well.  Day  after  day  Win- 
terstein  and  I  lunched  with  her  alone.  The  door 
leading  into  Rose's  stateroom  was  generally  closed. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  be  interested  in  Daisy. 
She  was  very  intelligent  and  self-centered,  and  as 
reserved  as  Rose  was  ingenuous  and  open.  She 
struck  me  as  being  much  older  than  Rose.  She  was 
a  sort  of  enigma,  and  I  could  not  help  wanting  to 
find  the  key  to  it.  She  never  praised  or  com- 
plimented one  as  Rose  did;  her  praise  was  a  word 
or  two,  which  seemed  wrung  from  her,  a  tantalizing, 
proud  creature. 

One  day  we  were  running  along  under  some 
bluffs;  the  wind  was  light  and  fitful;  we  had  all  the 
plain  sails  set.  Rose  was  on  deck,  seated  in  a 
cane  arm-chair  to  windward  of  the  companion. 
Winterstein  was  a  consummate  seaman,  and  that 
day  seemed  a  little  anxious;  he  kept  running  down 
to  look  at  the  barometer,  and  had  a  word  or  two 
with  Crawford,  I  remembered  afterward.  Neither 
of  them  seemed  to  like  the  look  of  the  weather.  I 
paid  small  attention  to  externals,  for  Daisy  was 
walking  the  deck  with  me,  and  I  was  telling  her 
how  I  intended  to  put  up  my  shingle  in  New  York 
that  winter  and  start  my  law  office.     She  was  look- 

95 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ing  her  very  best  and  I  had  begun  to  wonder  whether 
she  was  not  even  more  attractive  than  her  sister. 
When  she  got  excited,  or  when  the  wind  blew  a 
little  sharply,  her  white  skin  would  take  on  the 
faint  pink  tinge  of  a  sea-shell,  and  when  interested 
her  eyes  would  grow  large  and  deepen  in  color. 
Altogether  I  was  beginning  to  think  her  fascinating. 
Unconsciously  I  was  transferring  to  her  my  old 
allegiance  to  Rose.  Rose  was  not  at  her  best  this 
cruise;  she  looked  washed  out  and  pale;  she  did 
what  she  could,  but  the  bad  weather  was  against 
her.  Clearly  the  spiritual  center  of  gravity,  so  to 
speak,  of  the  vessel,  had  changed,  and  I  certainly 
was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  Daisy  gave  me  more 
of  her  time  than  she  gave  to  anyone  else,  though 
she  would  often  have  long  talks  with  Donkin.  The 
person  she  spent  least  time  with  was  distinctly  Win- 
terstein. 

While  we  were  walking  up  and  down  talking,  the 
wind  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  little  craft  shot  up 
at  once  on  an  even  keel  and  set  Rose's  chair  slid- 
ing. It  was  stopped  by  Winterstein,  who  took  his 
wife  below,  and  as  we  resumed  our  walk  again  I 
noticed  that  the  look  Daisy  threw  at  her  sister  was 
more  than  indifferent;  there  was  contempt  in  it.  In 
a  minute  or  two  Winterstein  came  up  again  and 
96 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

stood  near  the  main  sheet  and  every  now  and  then 
we  passed  him.  The  wind  was  blowing  again 
steadily  and  the  schooner  heeled  over  under  it  and 
all  went  on  as  before.  Suddenly,  without  any  warn- 
ing, the  wind  veered  round  and  blew  from  almost 
the  opposite  point  of  the  compass.  With  a  slash 
and  crash  the  sails  came  flapping  over  our  heads 
and  the  boom  smashed  inboard,  as  if  we  were  going 
to  gibe.     The  deck  from  slanting  jumped  level.     I 

* 

caught  the  companion  to  hold  myself.  Daisy  was 
thrown  past  me  and  would  have  had  a  nasty  fall, 
had  not  Winterstein  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She 
tore  herself  loose  angrily,  and  he  sprang  to  the  main- 
sheet  and  drew  it  taut  and  stopped  the  boom  from 
going  over.  The  helmsman,  Crawford,  had  been 
almost  as  quick.  No  sooner  had  the  squall  struck 
us  than  he  put  the  helm  up  and  the  next  moment 
The  Rose's  bow  fell  off  and  her  sails  filled  again 
and  she  went  on  as  before.  In  the  nick  of  time 
Winterstein  eased  away  the  mainsail. 

The  fine  thing  in  the  occurrence  was  Winter- 
stein's  extraordinary  speed  and  strength.  There 
he  stood  holding  the  mainsheet,  his  magnificent 
athlete's  figure  etched  against  the  sky.  Before  I 
had  taken  in  his  splendid  unconscious  pose,  Daisy 
made    an   inarticulate    exclamation   as   if   she    had 

97 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

caught  her  breath;  but  when  I  looked  at  her,  her 
face  was  as  composed  as  usual  and  without  ex- 
pression. 

I  thought  at  the  time  that  the  weather  was  chiefly 
responsible  for  the  change  in  the  moral  atmosphere. 
It  is  impossible  to  be  good-tempered  if  you  are 
wet  through  by  day  and  up  half  the  night  shorten- 
ing sail  or  ready  to  shorten  it.  For  the  schooner 
after  all  was  only  a  small  craft,  and  heavily  sparred 
even  for  summer  weather.  The  sails,  it  was  evi- 
dent, were  too  big  for  her,  though  Winterstein  de- 
clared he  had  never  seen  such  weather  in  Septem- 
ber. I  had  never  had  harder  work.  Three  days 
out  of  the  four  we  worked  all  day  long  and  half 
through  the  night.  The  little  craft  was  under- 
manned. And  though  we  were  all  strong,  five  or 
six  pairs  of  hands  cannot  do  the  work  of  ten  or 
twelve,  and  no  man  can  be  in  two  places  at  once. 
Our  tempers  began  to  get  ragged. 

On  the  first  trip  Crawford  had  been  a  great 
friend  of  mine;  he  was  really  a  fine  sailor  and  in- 
telligent besides,  and  whenever  I  wanted  to  know 
anything,  I  used  to  go  and  talk  with  him,  and  even 
in  'Frisco  I  took  him  out  with  me  to  the  theater 
once  or  twice,  and  was  very  much  amused  by  his 
98 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

shrewd  comments.  But  one  day  he  called  me  to 
help  him  hauling  in  the  jib. 

"Bear  a  hand,  damn  you,"  he  cried.  I  was 
amazed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Crawford?"  I  said  after- 
ward, but  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  muttered 
something  about  "lazy"  in  such  a  tone  that  I  re- 
plied : 

"Lazy  or  not,  you  had  better  curse  someone 
else." 

But  afterward,  in  cool  blood,  I  could  not  help 
asking  myself  what  it  all  meant.  I  could  find  no 
reason  for  Crawford's  change  of  manner.  "Lazy" 
stuck  in  my  mind.  The  day  before  had  been  fine 
and  I  had  sat  in  a  chair  near  Daisy,  and  read 
Whittier  to  her,  but  that  could  have  nothing  to 
do  with  Crawford  I  decided,  who  seemed  to  me 
quite  old:  he  must  have  been  nearly  forty. 

The  weather  made  little  difference  to  Daisy.  She 
was  up  on  deck  in  all  weathers,  and  seemed  fairly 
to  revel  in  a  hard  gale.  When  it  was  dry  she  used 
to  wear  a  tight-knitted  thing,  like  a  long  blue  jersey, 
which  outlined  her  slight  figure,  and  when  it  was 
wet  she  would  put  on  a  waterproof,  and  tuck  her 
hair  inside  a  close  hood,  which  seemed  to   frame 

99 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

her  face  lovingly;  I  liked  her  best  when  it  simply 
blew  hard,  and  we  could  walk  about  and  talk. 

About  this  time  I  began  to  notice  that  Donkin 
was  trying  in  his  uncouth  way  to  make  up  to  her. 
He  seized  every  opportunity  of  talking  to  her  and 
advising  her.  It  was  a  remark  of  Crawford's  that 
opened  my  eyes.  They  were  standing  together 
chatting  one  day  when  Crawford  looked  at  me 
over  his  shoulder  and  said: 

"She  does  not  care  for  him  any  more  than  she 
cares  for  the  mainmast,  but  the  big  fool  thinks 
she  does." 

A  pang  of  surprise  and  anger  told  me  that  I 
cared  more  than  I  admitted  to  myself.  The  idea  of 
Donkin,  great,  ugly,  sullen  Donkin,  side  by  side  with 
that  beauty  and  fine  intelligence. 

"Beauty  and  the  beast,"  I  said.  Crawford 
looked  at  me  and  turned  aside:  I  realized  that  I 
had  spoken  bitterly. 

All  this  time  there  seemed  to  be  less  change  in 
Winterstein  than  in  any  of  the  rest  of  us.  Day 
after  day  and  night  after  night  he  did  two  or  three 
men's  work,  and  did  not  seem  to  feel  fatigue  or 
need  sleep.  He  was  helped,  of  course,  by  his 
magnificent  health  and  strength.  He  appeared  to 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  I  should  monop- 
ioo 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

olize  Daisy,  and  we  talked  together  at  meal  times 
almost  as  if  he  were  not  in  the  cabin.  Our  talk 
was  mostly  of  books  and  works  of  art  in  which  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  join.  He  listened  in- 
deed, but  could  hardly  expect  to  interest  her  in  books 
as  I  could.  Sometimes  I  read  scraps  of  Shelley  or 
Swinburne  to  her,  and  it  was  a  treat  to  see  her  face 
flush  and  change  with  the  varying  emotions.  Her 
eyes  were  extraordinary;  they  drew  the  very  soul 
out  of  one  and  tempted  one  perpetually  to  more 
passionate  expression.  Talks  begun  in  the  cabin 
continued  with  us  on  deck.  No  one  made  me  talk  as 
she  did.  She  was  something  more  than  a  sympathetic 
listener.  She  made  one  want  to  draw  forth  her 
interest  or  rare  word  of  praise.  But  if  she  showed 
intense  emotion  about  a  piece  of  verse  or  some  won- 
derful cloud-effect,  her  interest  was  always  imper- 
sonal. As  soon  as  the  talk  became  at  all  senti- 
mental she  would  break  it  off  and  her  eyes  would 
grow  inexpressive  as  brown  stones. 

After  we  had  rounded  the  peninsula  and  turned 
into  the  Gulf,  the  weather  suddenly  improved.  Day 
after  day  we  floated  along  with  a  light  breeze  under 
a  pale-blue  sky,  tremulous  with  excess  of  light.  Day 
after  day  now  Rose  came  up  and  we  had  tea  and 
even  dinner  on  deck.     But  somehow  or  other  Rose 

IOI 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

never  regained  her  position :  we  liked  her  and  turned 
to  her,  attracted  by  her  smiling  good  humor,  but 
the  spiritual  interest  of  the  ship  was  centered  in  her 
sister.  Everything  in  Rose  was  open,  comprehen- 
sible, from  her  flowerlike  beauty  to  her  manifest 
devotion  to  Winterstein,  but  Daisy  was  a  closed 
book,  a  tantalizing  puzzle;  for  all  of  us  she  had 
the  charm  of  the  unknown  and  unexplored.  She 
entered  into  no  direct  competition  with  her  sister; 
she  simply  kept  apart  as  a  rival  queen  and  there 
could  be  no  doubt  that  her  court  was  better  at- 
tended. You  flattered  Rose  and  paid  compliments 
to  her,  the  other  you  studied  and  sought  to  interest. 
Rose  was  always  more  than  fair  to  her  sister.  In 
fact  she  praised  her  and  made  up  to  her  timidly, 
like  the  rest  of  us.  One  day  Winterstein  had  gone 
down  for  a  pair  of  loose  boots  for  his  wife,  as  she 
wanted  to  walk.  While  he  put  the  boots  on  we 
naturally  talked  of  feet.  I  praised  Rose's  feet,  but 
she  would  not  have  it: 

uMy  feet  are  huge,"  she  said,  "in  comparison 
to  Daisy's.  I  take  fours  and  she  takes  ones,  don't 
you,  Daisy?     Show  them." 

Daisy  looked  at  her  with  a  little  smile,  but  did 
not  follow  her  advice. 

"Come,  Daisy,  show  us,"  I  said. 
102 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

She  turned  smiling  inscrutable  eyes  on  me  and 
that  was  all.     Suddenly  Winterstein  laughed. 

"Daisy  wants  to  spare  us,"  he  said.  Her  face 
hardened. 

"Daisy  does  not  think  it  a  matter  of  any  mo- 
ment," she  said,  "but  if  you  are  all  agreed,  there 
you  are,"  and  she  pulled  her  feet  together  and  drew 
up  her  skirts  deliberately,  showing  tiny  feet  and 
two  nervous,  slight  ankles.  But  almost  at  the  same 
moment  she  sprang  to  her  feet: 

"Are  you  coming?"  she  threw  to  me,  and  walked 
down  the  deck. 

"What  wonderful  feet  you  have,"  I  said,  "al- 
most too  small  for  your  figure." 

"Why  should  very  small  feet  and  hands  be  ad- 
mired?" she  said,  turning  to  me. 

I  could  not  give  her  the  answer  that  came  into 
my  mind,  and  hesitated,  seeking  some  other  ex- 
planation. 

"It's  traditional.  ...  I  hardly  know,"  I  hesi- 
tated and  sprang  to  knowledge  for  evasion.  "All 
Greek  statues  of  women  have  large  feet,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"But  there  must  be  a  reason,"  she  said,  and  her 
eyes  probed  mine. 

"Yes,"   I   replied,   feeling  annoyed  with  myself 

1031 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

for  getting  red.  She  took  it  all  in  coolly  and  then 
changed  the  conversation,  perhaps  she  understood 
more  than  she  admitted. 

In  the  Gulf  we  called  at  various  small  stations 
and  did  fairly  well  with  the  pearls.  Rose  had  given 
Daisy  my  black  pearl  necklace,  I  noticed:  it  seemed 
strange  to  me  that  all  the  affection  should  be  on 
Rose's  side. 

The  weather  got  finer  and  finer:  it  became  so 
hot  indeed  that  Winterstein  fixed  up  an  awning  from 
the  companion  to  the  poop.  We  used  to  keep  the 
awning  cool  by  throwing  a  couple  of  buckets  of 
water  on  it  before  Rose  came  on  deck,  for  she  felt 
the  heat  intensely. 

About  this  time  I  began  to  guess  that  her  paleness 
and  languor  had  a  cause,  and  we  all  felt  more 
kindly  toward  her  if  that  were  possible.  But  the 
fact  itself  seemed  to  set  her  more  and  more  apart, 
putting  her  outside  our  circle.  The  heat  seemed  to 
affect  Daisy  no  more  than  it  affected  the  rest  of  us. 
I  used  to  get  up  nearly  every  morning  and  bathe, 
and  when  there  was  a  wind  Donkin  or  Crawford 
used  to  throw  a  bucket  of  water  over  me  and  I 
hopped  about  on  the  for'castle  to  dry  myself.  If 
there  was  no  wind  I  went  overboard,  keeping  near 
the  vessel  because  of  the  sharks.  One  day  I  had 
104  1 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

just  run  up  after  my  bath,  I  was  still  drying  my 
head,  when  Daisy  came  on  deck. 

"Oh,  how  I  should  like  a  swim,"  she  said.  "I've 
been  so  hot  in  that  stewy  cabin." 

She  did  not  look  hot,  she  was  always  the  picture 
of  neatness.     But  Donkin  put  his  oar  in  at  once. 

"Nothing  easier,  Miss  Daisy." 

When  had  he  commenced  calling  her  by  her 
Christian  name,  I  wondered  angrily. 

"Oh,  but  the  sharks,"  she  said.  "If  one  were 
to  bite  a  foot  off,  or  a  hand,  I  should  kill  myself. 
I  do  not  mind  death,  but  I  would  not  be  deformed 
for  anything. 

"We  could  rig  a  sail  out  on  the  yard,  so  that  you 
could  have  four  feet  of  water,  and  yet  be  per- 
fectly safe,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  how  splendid,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you  would." 

"In  ten  minutes,  Miss  Daisy,"  he  said,  and  turned 
away  to  the  work,  Crawford  following  at  his  heels. 

"I  must  go  down  and  get  ready,"  she  said,  "but 
won't  you  come  in  with  me,  you  won't  mind  bathing 
again,  it  will  give  me  courage?" 

"I  have  no  bathing  things,"  I  said,  "but  I  can 
probably  get  a  suit  ready  for  to-morrow." 

"What  a  pity,"  she  pouted,  "bathing  alone  is  no 
fun.    Can't  you  make  something  do?" 

io5j 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"I  daresay  I  can,"  I  replied. 

"Please,"  and  she  disappeared  down  the  com- 
panion. 

I  went  below  and  got  myself  ready  with  a  loose 
flannel  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  duck  trousers  cut  off 
at  the  knee,  promising  myself  to  hem  them  round 
next  day.  The  rummaging  about  took  me  some 
time,  and  when  I  came  on  deck  Daisy  was  already 
waiting  and  all  the  preparations  had  been  made. 
A  yard  had  been  sheered  out  from  the  ship  and 
stayed  against  the  bulwark  and  companion.  From 
the  end  of  it  a  square  sail  had  been  let  down  by  a 
cross  yard  at  the  end  of  the  spar.  The  sail  dipped 
into  the  water  and  formed  a  bath  of  perhaps  twenty 
feet  long,  fifteen  feet  broad  and  four  or  five  in 
depth.  The  gangway  opened  into  the  middle  of  it, 
and  the  little  ladder  led  down  to  the  water's  edge. 
When  I  came  up,  Daisy  was  thanking  them. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  perfect  bath?"  she  said, 
turning  to  me.  "Isn't  it  clever  of  them.  I  think 
you  sailors,"  and  she  looked  into  Donkin's  eyes, 
"can  just  do  anything."  (The  fellow's  weather- 
beaten  hide  flushed  to  brick-red.)  "It  was  Mr. 
Crawford,"  she  added,  "who  thought  of  putting 
the  sail  by  the  gangway.     He  thinks  of  everything." 

She  was  diabolically  clever;  for  the  praise  was 
106 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

deserved.  Crawford's  white  face  paled  and  he 
fidgetted  under  her  eyes. 

Daisy  had  on  a  little  green  cap,  into  which  she 
had  tucked  her  hair,  and  a  great  white  bath  sheet. 
Winterstein  came  up  from  below  and  stood  close  by. 

"Will  you  go  first?"  I  said. 

She  turned  and  undid  the  tapes  at  her  neck,  and 
let  the  bath  towel  slip  on  to  the  white  deck.  She 
was  in  pale  green  with  knickerbockers ;  a  little  tunic 
cut  low  at  the  neck  fell  over  her  hips.  Her  arms 
were  bare,  and  her  legs  from  the  knees  down. 
Everything  suited  her.  She  was  adorable — girl  and 
woman  in  one.  The  next  moment  she  had  slid 
down  the  ladder  into  the  sea  and  was  swimming 
about.  In  a  moment  I  joined  her,  and  then  she 
explained  to  me  that  she  could  never  float. 

"My  feet  always  go  down,"  she  said,  "and  before 
I  know  it  I  am  standing  on  my  feet  upright  in  the 
water."  Again  and  again  she  tried  to  float,  but 
always  with  the  same  result.  I  wondered  if  she 
knew  how  provocative  she  was,  as  she  lay  there 
on  the  blue  surface,  her  little  form  in  green  and 
white  with  the  wet  dress  clinging  to  her  figure  and 
outlining  it.  I  think  she  must  have  known,  for  there 
were  the  men  leaning  down  from  the  bulwarks,  all 
staring  at  her  with  hot  eyes.     When  she  came  on 

107 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

deck  she  did  not  disappear  at  once  into  the  bath 
cloak,  which  Donkin  held  ready  for  her.  She  stood 
there  among  the  men  on  deck  in  her  semi-nudity, 
and  cried: 

"Oh,  I  have  enjoyed  myself;  it  has  been  perfect. 
I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Donkin,  "and  to  you,  too,  Mr.  Crawford." 

I  noticed  that  Dyer  at  the  helm  devoured  her 
with  his  eyes  while  Abraham's  black  face  grinned 
from  the  for'castle  hatch. 

"It  was  kind  of  all  of  you,"  she  went  on,  "the 
water  was  not  a  bit  cold.  You  will  put  the  sail 
down  to-morrow  morning,  won't  you?"  she  said  to 
Donkin,  as  she  stretched  her  arms  backwards  over 
her  head  to  get  the  cloak.  The  movement  threw 
her  little  breasts  upward  into  sharp  relief;  the  next 
moment  she  had  drawn  the  cloak  about  her  with 
a  little  gay  laugh  and  disappeared  down  the  com- 
panionway.  It  was  as  if  the  sun  had  gone  out.  For 
a  moment  we  men  stared  at  each  other,  and  then 
I  went  forward  to  change  my  things  while  Donkin 
and  Crawford  busied  themselves  getting  in  the  sail. 
Suddenly  I  heard  Winterstein's  voice : 

"Here,  you  Abraham,  bear  a  hand  with  the  swab 
here  and  dry  up  this  water.  As  you've  come  on 
deck  you  may  as  well  do  something."  I  turned  in 
108 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

surprise,  the  tone  was  strangely  hard  and  menacing, 
utterly  unlike  Winterstein,  but  I  did  not  catch  a 
glimpse  of  his  face,  for  as  soon  as  he  had  given  the 
order  he  turned  away  to  stare  at  the  land  over  the 
poop. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all,  I  asked  myself, 
but  I  soon  put  the  query  out  of  my  head,  because 
I  did  not  want  t&  dull  the  vivid  image  of  the  girl's 
beautiful  figure  which  had  been  revealed  to  me. 
Was  anyone  else  as  lovely?  I  asked  myself.  Her 
feet  were  like  baby  feet.  The  marks  of  sex  in  her 
figure  were  so  slight  that  they  merely  accentuated 
the  beauty  of  the  slim  round  outlines.  What  prov- 
ocation in  the  crooked  girlish  arms,  what  a  chal- 
lenge in  the  inscrutable  mutinous  eyes.  She  had 
been  delightful  to  me  in  the  sea :  had  turned  to  me 
familiarly  for  help;  I  had  touched  her  firm  flesh 
again  and  again,  and  I  was  intoxicated  with  her  as 
with  wine. 

I  did  not  see  Daisy  again  that  morning  until 
lunchtime,  or  dinner  as  we  called  it.  I  had  fished 
persistently  and  called  out  loudly  whenever  I  had 
the  opportunity,  hoping  that  it  would  bring  her  on 
deck,  for  she  revelled  in  fishing,  and  was  easily 
the  champion  because  all  the  men  vied  with  each 
other  in  picking  the  most  attractive  baits  for  her. 

109 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

In  this  game  Crawford  was  easily  first.  He 
brought  up  a  piece  of  red  flannel  one  day,  cut  into 
the  shape  of  a  narrow  tongue;  on  the  other  side  of 
it  he  had  sewn  a  glittering  piece  of  white  satin. 
Equipped  with  this  bait  no  one  had  a  chance  with 
Daisy.  She  had  caught  three  fish  to  my  one,  and 
as  Donkin  or  Crawford  was  always  at  hand  to 
pull  up  the  wet  line  for  her  and  take  the  hook  from 
the  fish  and  put  the  bait  straight  again  she  had 
little  to  do  except  amuse  herself. 

At  lunch  she  took  all  my  compliments  in  com- 
plete silence. 

"You  would  be  able  to  float,"  I  insisted,  "if  you 
would  arch  your  back  and  keep  your  head  right 
back." 

But  she  would  not  have  it. 

"I  do  arch  my  back  and  put  my  head  right  back, 
but  my  feet  pull  me  upright." 

"Such  tiny  feet,"  I  replied,  "have  not  the  power 
to  pull  anyone  down." 

"You  shall  try,  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "I  will 
keep  as  rigid  as  you  please,  and  you  shall  put  your 
hand  under  my  back  to  see  whether  I  am  stiff." 

Winterstein  suddenly  spoke: 

"Why  don't  you  put  that  French  thing  on,  that 
knitted  thing  instead  of  the  tunic?" 
no 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

"Do  you  mean  the  maillot?"  she  said  slowly, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

He  nodded.  His  expression  I  remembered  after- 
ward was  a  little  strained. 

"I  have  not  worn  it,"  she  said  with  her  eyes  on 
the  cloth,  "since  I  bathed  at  the  Cliff  House,  but  as 
you  wish  it,"  she  added  slowly,  "I  will  put  it  on," 
and  she  turned  away  indifferently.  There  was  a 
tension  in  the  air,  but  not  on  her  side  I  thought 
as  much  as  on  his,  but  why? 

"What  is  the  maillot  like?"  I  said,  showing  her 
that  I  knew  the  French  word. 

"It's  a  knitted  thing,"  she  said;  "all  the  girls  used 
to  wear  them  and  little  French  slippers.  You  know 
we  have  parties  in  the  baths.  I  have  got  all  the 
things  still.  I'll  put  them  on  to-morrow.  I  think 
they  suit  me.  Some  people  used  to  say  so,"  she 
added  slowly. 

Winterstein  got  up,  and  went  into  his  wife's  bed- 
room for  something  or  other.  When  he  returned 
I  was  leaving  the  cabin.  Daisy  called  to  me  on 
the  way  up  that  she  would  bring  Browning  with 
her.  She  was  sensitive  to  beauty  of  words  or  music 
and  extraordinarily  intelligent:  I  delighted  to  read 
her  my  favorite  poems. 

If  I  were  a  story-teller  I'd  try  to  make  all  you 

in 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

people  feel  what  we  felt  next  morning.  The  weather 
was  perfect,  the  sea  like  glass:  the  little  schooner 
seemed  to  breathe  gently  as  if  sleeping  on  the  oily 
swell.  Rose  came  on  deck  early  and  established 
herself  under  the  awning.  I  thought  that  her  pres- 
ence would  make  a  difference,  would  act  as  a  re- 
straint on  her  sister  and  I  wished  her  away.  I  had 
got  my  bathing  things  in  some  sort  of  order  the 
evening  before.  I  rather  fancied  myself  in  them. 
I  had  not  been  on  deck  more  than  five  minutes  when 
I  noticed  a  sort  of  subdued  excitement  in  everyone. 
All  the  men  were  on  deck  and  they  had  all  rigged 
themselves  out  more  or  less.  Donkin  was  shaved 
and  so  was  Crawford,  Dyer  limped  about  in  clean 
ducks,  and  Abraham  Lincoln  had  mounted  a  large 
white  collar  with  a  scarlet  and  blue  tie.  Winter- 
stein  alone  had  made  no  change.  He  talked  to 
his  wife  while  moving  about  whistling  for  wind  as 
if  indifferent.   .  .  . 

For  the  first  time  I  noticed  clearly  that  Rose  was 
to  become  a  mother.  Her  face  was  a  little  white 
and  drawn,  and  when  she  tried  once  or  twice  to 
take  a  few  turns  with  Winterstein  you  could  see  that 
her  figure  had  altered  in  spite  of  the  loose  dress 
she  wore.     I   was  looking  over  the  little  lifeboat 

112 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

which  we  carried  on  the  davit  amidship  when  I 
heard  Daisy's  voice. 

"What  a  perfect  day,"  she  said,  "and  how  de- 
lightful everything  looks.  I  know  I  shall  enjoy 
the  bath." 

Naturally  I  went  toward  her.  She  was  standing 
close  to  the  companion.  Rose  was  sitting  a  yard  or 
so  behind  it  with' her  chair  against  the  mahogany 
top.  Everyone  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  excitement. 
Donkin,  Crawford,  Abraham  Lincoln,  all  moved 
like  steel  nibs  toward  the  magnet,  except  Winter- 
stein.  The  girl  had  her  back  to  the  men.  Suddenly 
she  opened  her  wrap  a  little  to  show  herself  in  her 
maillot  to  her  sister.  Winterstein  and  I  could  not 
help  seeing  her  as  well.  It  caught  my  breath.  For 
one  moment  I  thought  she  was  naked.  The  maillot 
was  white;  the  meshes  of  it  showed  the  rose- 
colored  skin  beneath.  She  looked  like  an  ivory 
statue  by  some  modern  French  artist:  she  was 
rounder,  more  woman-like  than  I  had  pictured  her 
immaturity. 

"Oh,  Daisy,"  cried  Rose. 

"He  told  me  to  put  it  on,"  said  Daisy  defiantly 
looking  at  Winterstein  while  drawing  the  cloak 
about  her  again.  "You  used  to  say  it  fitted  me 
perfectly,"  she  added,  "and  liked  me  in  it." 

113 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"Yes,"  said  Rose,  amiably,  leaning  back  and 
closing  her  eyes,  as  if  in  pain  or  weariness,  "it 
does  suit  you,  but  somehow  or  other  it  was  dif- 
ferent when  half  a  dozen  of  you  children  were  all 
wearing  them  in  the  bath;  besides  you've  grown,  I 
suppose,  and  it's  in  the  open  and  men  about  .  .  ." 

"I'll  take  it  off,"  said  Daisy  in  the  hard  clear 
voice  which  I  had  come  to  recognize  as  a  sign  of 
annoyance. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Rose,  "I'd  bathe  in  it  now  I  had 
it  on.  Go  on,"  she  said  smiling,  "the  dip  will  do 
you  good." 

The  girl  turned  and  without  a  word  went  down 
into  the  cabin.     In  a  minute  or  two  she  reappeared. 

"Will  you  go  down  first,"  she  said  to  me,  "and 
I  will  dive  in." 

She  stood  in  the  gangway  with  the  shapeless  wrap 
about  her.  I  nodded,  for  my  mouth  was  dry,  and 
without  more  ado,  threw  myself  into  the  sea,  and  in 
a  moment  was  standing  on  the  sail  dashing  the  water 
from  my  eyes.  Daisy  opened  the  wrap  slowly  and 
took  her  arms  out  of  the  sleeve  with  a  sort  of  ser- 
pentine movement,  infinitely  graceful  and  provoca- 
tive. She  had  put  on  her  little  tunic  over  the  mail- 
lot. I  was  glad  the  outline  was  draped;  but  having 
seen  her  in  the  maillot  the  vision  of  her  form  was 
114 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

still  with  me  in  its  half-ripe  seduction.  But  being 
hidden  from  the  other  men  it  seemed  mine  and 
private.  Yet  I  noticed  that  Donkin  received  her 
bathing  cloak  mechanically  without  taking  his  eyes 
off  her.  As  she  stood  above  me  she  swayed  back- 
ward, threw  her  hands  above  her  head,  then  bent 
gradually  forward — down,  down,  the  lines  of  her 
flexible  young  body  changing  every  moment  and  let 
herself  glide  into  the  sea.  All  the  time  she  stood 
poised  on  the  deck  there  was  a  steel  band  of  hate 
round  my  chest.  I  do  not  think  the  girl  knew 
what  she  was  doing.  I  do  not  believe  she  could 
have  imagined  the  rage  of  desire  her  beauty  called 
to  life  in  these  men  who  had  been  a  month  at  sea, 
eating  heartily  while  breathing  in  the  tonic  sea  air. 
As  soon  as  she  was  in  the  water  beside  me  all  anger 
vanished;  she  seemed  to  belong  to  me  then,  and 
I  wondered  whether  she  liked  me  to  touch  her;  at 
any  rate  she  was  not  adverse  to  learning  anything 
I  suggested  and  naturally  I  was  fertile  in  suggestions. 
Suddenly  she  said  she  would  float;  she  would 
arch  her  back  and  put  her  head  back  as  far  as  she 
could,  and  I  must  put  my  hand  under  her  waist  and 
support  her,  then  I  would  see  how  impossible  it 
was  for  her  to  float.     I  did  what  I  was  told  with- 

"5 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

out  thinking,  and  at  first  she  floated  and  I  looked 
into  her  face  and  cried: 

"You  see,  you  see."  But  she  was  not  looking 
at  me,  her  face  was  set  hard,  there  was  a  sort  of 
defiance  in  it.  I  followed  her  glance  up  and  saw 
Winterstein  leaning  over  the  bulwarks  gazing  down 
on  her.  I  seemed  to  catch  for  the  moment  a  sort 
of  tension  between  them  and  then  slowly  the  vase- 
like outlines  of  her  hips  sank  lower  and  lower  into 
the  water,  and  she  came  upright  smiling: 

"See  how  my  feet  drag  me  down,"  she  said,  push- 
ing her  right  foot  up  through  the  water  in  comic 
dismay,  as  if  to  show  me  how  heavy  it  was. 

Winterstein  had  left  the  bulwarks,  but  Donkin 
was  looking  down  at  her  and  Crawford  and  the 
others  all  drinking  her  in  with  greedy  eyes.  She 
swam  about  a  little  and  then  climbed  up  the  ladder 
and  stood  at  the  top  of  it,  half  in  the  hot  sunshine, 
and  half  in  the  shade  of  the  awning — to  get  warm, 
she  said.  My  foot  was  on  the  lower  rung  of  the 
ladder,  I  was  so  close  to  her  that  I  could  see  every 
line  of  her  body,  the  adorable  roundnesses,  and  the 
fine  nervous  grace  of  it.  I  could  scarcely  refrain 
from  putting  my  hands  on  her  as  she  stood  there 
swaying  just  in  front  of  me,  with  the  wet  tunic 
116 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

clinging  to  her  like  skin  and  showing  all  her  adorable 
nudities. 

"It  is  too  delicious,"  she  said  with  a  little  shudder, 
"the  water  is  warmer  than  the  air.  The  air  makes 
me  shiver,  but  the  water  is  warm  like  new  milk. 
You  should  come  and  bathe,  too,  Rose." 

"Put  on  your  wrap  and  change  quickly,  or  you'll 
catch  cold,"  said  Rose,  who  had  picked  up  her  things 
and  was  going  down  to  the  cabin.  She  spoke  a 
little  tartly,  I  thought. 

The  girl  turned  and  let  Donkin  wrap  the  bathing 
cloak  about  her  without  a  word.  I  caught  sight 
of  her  as  she  turned,  and  the  vision  of  her  is  with 
me  still.  I've  wondered  since  if  there  ever  was 
a  more  perfect  figure,  or  if  anyone  else  could  be 
so  slim,  with  such  tiny  round  breasts  no  larger  than 
apples.  I  can  still  see  the  dimples  in  her  arms  at 
the  elbow  and  the  drips  of  water  diamonding  the 
rosy  skin  as  she  lifted  up  her  arms  to  take  the  cloak 
which  Donkin  was  holding. 

The  next  moment  she  had  vanished  down  the 
companion.  I  stepped  forward.  Donkin  and 
Crawford  were  standing  close  together  still  staring 
after  the  girl.  As  she  disappeared  they  turned  and 
perhaps  by  accident  jostled  each  other:  in  a  flash 
their  jealous  hate  flamed.     Before  one  could  think 

117 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Donkin  was  holding  Crawford  by  the  throat  while 
Crawford  was  striking  him  on  the  face  savagely. 
The  next  moment  Winterstein  had  thrust  them 
apart. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  said  to  Donkin  in  repressed 
low  voice.  "I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  Crawford  and  speaking  more  naturally.  Don- 
kin glowered  sullenly  while  Crawford  muttered 
something  and  went  forward.  As  I  followed  him 
Lincoln's  black  face  went  down  the  forehatchway 
and  Dyer  turned  to  take  up  his  watch  again;  but 
not  before  I  had  noticed  a  certain  antagonism  on 
every  face;  they  all  reminded  me  of  a  set  of  dogs 
on  the  point  of  fighting — all  rigid,  with  bared  fangs 
and  hating  eyes. 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 
Rose  was  on  deck  nearly  the  whole  time,  Winterstein 
always  in  attendance.  Daisy  and  I  walked  the  deck 
a  good  while  together;  I  got  her  to  say  she  liked 
me,  but  when  I  pressed  her  to  say  how  much,  she 
only  laughed  and  changed  the  subject.  She  had  a 
long  talk  with  Donkin  and  another  talk  with  Craw- 
ford; she  even  managed  to  smile  at  Dyer  and  trans- 
port him  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight.  For 
the  first  time  I  began  to  realize  her  insatiate  vanity; 
she  wanted  all  the  men  to  admire  her.  I  raged 
118 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

against  her  in  my  heart,  raged  the  more  because  I 
was  in  the  toils.  I  would  have  given  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  have  been  able  to  have  taken  that  slight 
figure  in  my  arms,  to  have  crushed  those  little 
breasts  against  mine  and  kissed  the  flower  of  her 
mouth. 

But  of  all  this  she  seemed  unconscious,  she  was 
simply  herself,  quiet,  aloof,  and  inscrutable  till  late 
in  the  afternoon,  when  a  little  breeze  sprang  up, 
a  land  breeze  which  gave  the  light  schooner  three 
or  four  knots  an  hour — good  steering  way.  Then 
she  had  the  lines  up  and  fished  from  the  poop. 
Donkin  and  myself  waited  on  her,  while  Winter- 
stein  walked  up  and  down  beside  his  wife  from 
the  poop  to  the  companion  and  from  the  companion 
to  the  poop  in  silence.  Dyer  steered  and  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  came  grinning  to  us  every  now  and 
then  to  bring  fresh  bait  for  Missy  Daisy.  .  .  . 
****** 

The  catastrophe  came  with  startling  suddenness. 
I  see  now  that  it  must  have  come,  that  it  was  all 
prepared,  inevitable.  Yet  the  unexpectedness  of  it 
and  the  tragic  completeness  were  overwhelming. 
It  seems  to  have  blotted  out  all  that  went  before 
so  that  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  two  or  three 
days  or  half  a  dozen  days  later  than  the  bathing 

119 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

or  not.  Anyhow  the  bathing  I  have  described  was 
the  last.  For  some  days  after  we  had  lively 
breezes;  the  spar  had  to  be  taken  in  and  the  extem- 
porized bath  dismantled.  We  had  called,  I  re- 
member, at  Mulege  near  Los  Coyotes,  and  had  had 
a  good  haul  of  pearls  and  a  lot  of  hard  work. 

One  afternoon  we  had  been  working  hard  and 
had  had  to  row  the  boat  for  four  or  five  miles 
over  shallow  water  to  a  village  where  the  in- 
habitants, we  found,  had  collected  pearls  for  years 
and  years  and  had  never  before  been  visited.  The 
bargaining  was  interminable.  The  fisher-folk  had 
no  standard  of  value.  One  man  wanted  a  dollar 
for  three  or  four  fine  pearls,  another  wanted  fifty 
dollars  for  an  insignificant  bad  specimen,  and  we 
were  on  the  strain  all  day  persuading  and  cajoling. 
I  was  tuckered  out  when  I  got  into  the  boat  and 
took  the  bow  oar  to  Donkin's  stroke  while  Winter- 
stein  sat  in  the  stern  sheets.  I  think  Winterstein, 
too,  must  have  been  tired  and  exasperated,  for  he 
scarcely  spoke  all  the  way  to  the  schooner. 

When  we  got  on  board  a  six-knot  breeze  was 
blowing.  After  telling  us  to  keep  our  course,  Win- 
terstein went  below.  I  went  down,  too,  and  had  a 
sleep:  when  I  came  up  again  I  felt  refreshed  and 
vigorous. 

1 20 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

The  night  was  wonderfully  beautiful.  The  moon 
rose  like  a  crimson  wafer  through  a  thin  heat  mist, 
but  soon  shook  herself  clear  of  her  trailing  garments 
and  walked  the  purple  like  a  queen.  I  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  the  moon's  radiance  lent  the  edges 
of  the  nearer  clouds  a  brownish  smoky  rose  tinge. 
As  the  night  wore  on  the  fleecy  round  clouds  gath- 
ered closer  together  like  silver  shields  hanging 
heavily  against  the  blue  vault;  the  moonlight  grew 
fitful. 

When  I  went  down  Daisy  and  Winterstein  were 
both  on  deck.  They  were  standing  near  each  other 
just  by  the  poop.  When  I  came  up  after  having 
had  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  biscuit  they  were  still 
talking  at  intervals.  She  was  sitting  on  the  com- 
panion while  he  stood  in  front  of  her  or  moved  away 
and  then  came  back.  I  went  forward  to  do  some- 
thing and  when  I  returned  they  were  still  talking, 
which  seemed  strange  to  me,  for  they  seldom  ex- 
changed more  than  a  word  or  two.  Every  now 
and  then  she  laughed,  and  the  laugh  was  hard  and 
clear:  she  was  scornful  I  thought.  They  seemed 
so  preoccupied  that  I  was  annoyed  and  would  not 
join  them.  Abraham  Lincoln  at  the  tiller  was  al- 
most out  of  earshot.  I  suppose  I  was  jealous.  I 
noticed  that  when  the  moon  came  out   from  the 

121 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

darkening  clouds  they  were  some  distance  apart,  but 
as  soon  as  the  light  was  veiled  they  seemed  close 
together  again.  I  was  furious,  my  pride  prevented 
me  going  near  them,  yet  I  could  not  but  stare  to- 
ward them  at  intervals,  jealously  watchful.  Sud- 
denly while  I  was  a  little  to  windward,  just  in  line 
with  the  helmsman,  the  moon  came  out,  and  I  saw 
Winterstein  take  Daisy's  head  quickly  in  his  hands 
and  kiss  her  on  the  lips;  my  heart  stopped.  The 
moon  showed  everything  as  if  it  were  daylight.  I 
took  a  quick  step  forward  when  just  as  suddenly 
I  became  aware  that  Rose  had  come  out  of  the 
companion  and  had  seen  her  husband  kissing  her 
sister. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  petrified.  I  heard  a  faint 
exclamation,  or  was  it  merely  her  breath  caught  in 
a  gasp  and  strangled?  She  turned  and  moved  across 
the  deck  with  her  hand  across  her  face.  She  struck 
the  low  bulwark  and  there  was  a  splash  in  the 
water.  The  next  moment  Winterstein  had  sprung 
to  the  side  and  plunged  in  after  her.  The  second 
splash  seemed  only  a  couple  of  seconds  behind  the 
first.  I  jumped  to  the  helm  only  just  in  time;  for 
the  darky  had  let  it  slip  from  his  hands  and  was 
staring  round  where  Winterstein  had  disappeared. 
I  crammed  the  tiller  hard  down,  shouting: 
122 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

"Man  overboard,  man  overboard." 

The  next  moment  Crawford  sprang  on  deck. 
The  little  schooner  was  fluttering  in  the  wind;  she 
came  about  with  a  jerk  just  as  Crawford  and  the 
darky  dropped  over  the  side  into  the  dingy  and 
began  rowing  back. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Donkin,  running  aft. 

"Mrs.  Winterstefn  fell  overboard  and  Winter- 
stein  went  after  her.  How  long  shall  we  take  to 
get  back,  do  you  think?" 

"In  a  quarter  of  a  mile,"  he  replied,  while  loosen- 
ing a  life-buoy. 

"Then  we  must  pick  them  up?"  I  said. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered.  "I  guess  Winter- 
stein's  a  good  swimmer." 

"First  rate,"  I  replied,  but  my  heart  was  hurting 
with  fear. 

At  this  moment  Daisy  passed  across  my  line  of 
vision  going  to  the  bulwarks  to  look  ahead.  The 
moon  was  full  out  and  the  light  quite  strong  again. 
I  looked  at  her  face  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
excited,  expectant,  resolute;  no  trace  of  horror,  or 
fear.  I  gasped  and  suspicion  came  to  me.  Could 
it  be  that  she  had  wished  for  it?  Her  sister — it  was 
impossible. 

Two  minutes  more  and  we  were  alongside  the 

123 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

boat  again.  Crawford  had  everything  ready  as 
usual  and  had  gone  to  the  very  spot,  and  as  we 
came  up  in  the  wind  beside  the  boat  I  left  the 
helm  to  the  nigger  and  leaned  over  the  bulwarks. 
I  was  just  in  time  to  see  Winterstein  come  to  the 
surface  and  haul  himself  up  by  the  stern  of  the 
boat. 

He  stood  there  poised  for  a  moment,  and  then 
hurled  himself  into  the  sea  again  as  if  he  would 
go  to  the  very  bottom.  My  heart  sank:  he  had 
not  found  her  yet. 

I  called  to  Crawford  to  know  if  he  had  seen  any 
trace  of  Rose. 

"No  sign,"  he  replied,  "and  this  is  the  skipper's 
fourth  or  fifth  dive.     I  guess  it's  no  good." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  come  into  the  boat,"  he 
said  a  moment  later,  "and  get  Winterstein  to  come 
on  board.  He'll  kill  himself  with  this  diving.  I've 
never  known  a  man  keep  down  so  long;  he  can't 
do  it  again." 

I  jumped  into  the  boat,  and  a  couple  of  strokes 
took  us  to  the  spot  where  Winterstein  had  disap- 
peared. We  stared  down  at  the  dark  surface,  but 
there  was  not  a  sign  or  a  sound.  It  seemed  in- 
credible that  any  man  should  be  able  to  stay  under 
so  long. 

124 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

Suddenly  Crawford  cried,  "There  he  is,"  and  gave 
a  couple  of  quick  strokes  with  his  oar:  slowly  the 
body  came  to  the  surface.  As  we  caught  hold  of 
him  we  saw  that  the  blood  was  streaming  from 
his  nose  and  mouth  and  ears. 

"He's  killed  himself,"  said  Crawford,  "I  thought 
he  would." 

We  got  back  to  the  schooner  in  a  moment  and 
lifted  Winterstein  on  board. 

As  I  was  helping  to  carry  him  toward  the  com- 
panion with  his  head  in  my  hands,  Daisy  caught 
hold  of  me: 

"Dead?"  she  cried,  her  eyes  wild  in  the  frozen 
face. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  replied,  "he  stayed  under 
too  long.  We  must  get  him  downstairs  and  bring 
him  to." 

"Ah,"  she  gasped,  and  let  my  arm  go. 

We  carried  Winterstein  down  to  the  cabin,  turned 
him  over  and  poured  the  water  out  of  him.  After- 
wards I  blew  whisky  up  his  nose  and  poured  some 
down  his  throat,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  revived. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said,  struggling  to  rise. 
"Have  you  got  her?" 

"It's  no  good,  Skipper,"  cried  Crawford,  holding 
him  down.     "We  did  our  best.     You  did  all  one 

125 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

man  could.  She  must  have  gone  straight  down. 
There's  not  a  sign  of  her." 

"I  must  find  her,"  he  said,  struggling  up.  But 
he  was  too  weak,  he  fell  back  fainting. 

I  do  not  know  how  the  hours  passed.  I  felt 
dazed;  but  with  an  ache  at  my  heart  and  a  sort 
of  vague  dread  it  was  all  incredible  to  me.  I  could 
not  believe  that  Rose  was  dead,  drowned,  that  I 
should  never  see  her  again,  that  charming  woman 
with  her  appealing,  affectionate  soul.  It  was  too 
awful  to  realize.  I  thought  I'd  wake  up  and  find 
it  all  a  bad  dream.  Suddenly  I  noticed  that  my  legs 
were  cold.  I  put  my  hand  down,  my  trousers  were 
dripping  wet  from  carrying  Winterstein.  The  next 
moment  I  became  conscious  that  I  was  dead  tired, 
drunk  tired,  my  eyes  were  closing  of  themselves. 
Instinctively  I  turned  into  the  for'castle,  stretched 
myself  on  the  lockers  and  slept.  .  .  . 

When  I  awoke  I  did  not  know  where  I  was: 
everything  was  strange  to  me.  Then  I  remem- 
bered, and  with  the  remembrance  came  the  iron 
band  about  my  chest  constricting  my  heart.  I  got 
up  and  went  on  deck.  No  change  there.  The 
schooner  was  just  drawing  through  the  water,  the 
sun  shining;  the  light  dancing  on  the  wavelets;  the 
air  like  wine.  Dyer  was  at  the  helm.  If  only  last 
126 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

night  could  have  been  blotted  out?  I  could  scarcely 
believe  it  was  real.  As  I  went  aft,  Crawford  met 
me: 

"How's  Winterstein?"  I  asked. 

"Sleeping  now,"  he  replied,  "but  he's  been  mighty 
bad.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  done  up — never.  How 
did  it  happen?  How  did  his  wife  go  overboard? 
You  saw  it,"  and  his  eyes  probed  mine. 

"She  came  out  of  the  companion,"  I  said,  "the 
deck  was  on  a  bit  of  a  slant  ...  it  all  happened 
so  quickly."  I  felt  myself  flushing.  I  was  angry 
with  my  hesitation. 

"But  why  did  she?  How  did  she  sink  like  that? 
— it's  mighty  curious,"  he  added  suspiciously. 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Daisy?"  I  asked  to  change 
the  current  of  his  thought. 

"Miss  Daisy,"  he  repeated,  emphasising  the  Miss, 
so  that  I  noticed  how  strange  it  was  for  me  to  use 
the  formal  courtesy,  "Miss  Daisy  ain't  been  up 
yet.  The  nigger  thinks  'twas  jealousy  between  the 
two  sisters;  but  he  saw  nothing.  You  must  have 
seen." 

I  had  had  time  to  recover  myself,  and  choose  a 
better  way  of  putting  him  off  the  scent: 

"It's  awful,  awful,"  I  said,  as  if  to  myself.     "I 

127 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

can't  understand  it."  Crawford  grunted,  still  sus- 
picious. 

But  in  spite  of  the  tragedy,  the  suspicions,  and 
the  dark  cloud  of  fear  that  hung  over  me  as  to 
what  might  happen  next,  the  ordinary  routine  of 
life  went  on — luckily  for  all  of  us.  A  little  later 
Abe  called  to  me  from  the  for'castle  to  come  and 
have  a  cup  of  coffee.  I  found  I  was  very  hungry 
and  after  breakfast  felt  much  better,  more  hopeful 
I  mean  and  fitter  to  meet  whatever  might  occur. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Crawford  was  at  the  helm 
steering.  I  was  standing  near  the  foremast  when 
suddenly  Daisy  came  out  of  the  companion  and 
spoke  to  Crawford  in  passing.  He  replied  in  a 
monosyllable,  without  the  usual  greeting,  and  then 
stared  up  at  the  mainsail  as  if  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  said.  The  instinctive  puritanism  of  the 
race  spoke  in  his  awkward  rude  rebuff.  I  saw  the 
color  flood  her  cheeks  and  then  ebb  away.  I 
loathed  the  man;  I  could  have  beaten  him  for  his 
insolence;  yet  I  was  glad  he  had  insulted  her:  why? 
She  deserved  it  all  and  more,  I  thought  hotly — and 
yet — she  walked  up  the  slanting  deck,  her  little 
figure  thrown  back  proudly.  I  crossed  to  wind- 
ward between  the  masts  to  cut  her  off:  why?  I 
don't  know.  I  only  know  that  passion  was  in  me; 
128 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

she  seemed  so  far  away  from  us  all  with  that  level, 
unseeing,  unwavering  glance;  the  proud  aloofness 
attracted  me.  I  had  never  before  understood  the 
fascination  of  her  personality,  of  her  courage. 
When  we  met  she  stopped  and  her  eyes  held  me. 

"I  know  you  never  meant  it,  Daisy,"  I  said  lamely 
and  held  out  both  my  hands  to  her. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  replied,  her  eyes  searching 
hard.  The  words  shocked  me.  I  did  not  realize 
that  having  just  been  insulted,  she  was  all  mistrust 
and  temper;  if  only  I  had  said  the  right  word;  but 
her  pride  angered  me  and  for  the  moment  I  took 
her  question  that  may  have  only  been  doubt  of  me 
for  an  admission  of  guilt.     Fool  that  I  was. 

"God,"  I  exclaimed  violently  and  stepped  back. 
Her  face  hardened  and  she  swept  past  me  without 
another  word  or  look,  leaving  me  there  confused, 
angry,  wild,  and  back  of  all  full  of  forgiveness — of 
admiration. 

I  could  not  but  dread  the  first  meeting  with 
Winterstein.  What  would  he  say,  how  would  he 
take  it  all?  I  had  not  much  time  to  let  imagination 
wander.  As  I  turned  in  my  walk,  he  was  there. 
His  appearance  was  shocking;  it  wasn't  only  that 
he  was  white  and  seemed  ill;  his  clothes  hung  on 
him;  he  was  shrunken  and  his  eyes  were  bad  to 

129 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

look  upon — despairing — sad  at  one  moment,  the 
next  hot  in  self-anger  and  exasperation. 

I  went  to  him  at  once,  my  heart  full  of  pity.  I 
saw  he  was  all  broken. 

"I'm  glad  you're  up,"  I  cried  cordially;  "the  air'll 
do  you  good." 

He  looked  at  me  with  such  dumb  misery  in  the 
glance  that  my  eyes  pricked:  he  nodded  his  head 
once  or  twice  and  then  went  over  to  the  low  poop 
and  sat  down. 

A  little  later  Dyer  went  to  him  and  said  break- 
fast was  ready.  He  shook  his  head  merely  and  sat 
on  gazing  moodily  at  the  water. 

The  same  thing  happened  at  dinner-time,  but 
when  pressed  to  eat  by  Crawford  he  replied, 
"  'twould  choke  me.     I'm  all  right." 

The  sweet  old  routine  of  life  had  done  me  good 
so  I  thought  it  would  do  good  to  everyone  and 
should  be  kept  up ;  accordingly  I  went  to  dinner  in 
the  cabin  as  usual.  As  Daisy  did  not  appear  I 
knocked  at  the  stateroom  door  and  asked  her  to 
come.  A  minute  or  so  later  she  entered  quietly, 
but  she  hardly  ate  anything  and  spoke  not  at  all. 
At  supper  it  was  the  same  thing. 

Winterstein  sat  on  the  poop  till  far  into  the 
night.  When  Crawford  came  on  watch,  I  took 
130 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

Winterstein  below:  he  said  merely,  "I  shan't  sleep," 
but  threw  himself  on  the  cabin  sofa  without  un- 
dressing. 

The  next  day  passed  in  the  same  way,  but  before 
dinner  Crawford  told  me  that  he  could  not  get 
Winterstein  to  take  anything. 

"If  he  doesn't  eat,  he'll  go  crazy,"  he  said.  "He's 
just  eatin'  himself." 

I  told  this  to  Daisy.  She  looked  at  me  with  set 
face. 

"I  have  no  influence,"  she  said  slowly,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  herself,  "no  influence,  but  I'll  try."  Her 
face  went  rigid  as  she  spoke.  I  nodded  and  went 
with  her  up  the  companion  ladder.  But  Winter- 
stein didn't  yield  at  first  to  her  asking;  he  shook 
his  head,  merely  saying,  "I  can't." 

"The  soup  will  help  you,"  she  said,  and  then 
slowly,  "Rose  would  wish  you  to  take  it!" 

"O,  God!"  he  cried  starting  up  and  stretching 
out  his  arms,  as  if  he  couldn't  bear  to  hear  the 
name — and  then  sank  down  again.  She  put  the  cup 
in  his  hands  and  he  took  it  and  drank,  and  then  re- 
lapsed again  into  his  moody  brooding  silence. 

When  she  returned  she  went  straight  to  her  cabin 
and  so  another  day  went  by. 

The   next   day  Winterstein   took   some   soup   I 

131 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

brought  him.  In  the  evening  Crawford  proposed 
to  return  at  once  to  'Frisco. 

"I  don't  like  his  looks,"  he  said;  "he's  worrying 
himself  crazy  and  I  guess  the  sooner  we  all  get 
away  from  each  other  the  better;  perhaps  we'll  be 
able  to  forget  the  whole  derned  thing  then  and  live 
again." 

Donkin  agreed  with  him,  and  so  did  I  and  the 
ship's  course  was  altered. 

Daisy  got  into  the  way  of  walking  the  deck  with 

Donkin.     He  adored  the  very  planks  she  trod  on 

and  perhaps  that  touched  her.     Anyway,  she  was 

with  him  now  more  than  with  any  of  us.     It  made 

me    angry   and   scornful,   kept  my   jealousy   alive, 

prevented  me  from  understanding  her  or  forgiving 

— I  always  saw  the  two  heads  together  and  the 

fatal  kiss. 

****** 

In  this  puzzling  world  mistakes  or  blunders  often 
have  worse  results  than  crimes.  The  momentary 
yielding  to  passion  brought  the  tragedy  and  the  first 
tragedy  inevitably  drew  on  another. 

We  had  got  into  the  Equatorial  Current  and  were 
making  fine  time  up  the  coast  towards  'Frisco.  The 
weather  was  just  what  sailors  like :  a  fair  wind  per- 
fectly steady  day  after  day;  bright  skies,  and  blue 
132 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

seas  with  scarcely  a  white  horse  to  be  seen.  We 
did  not  alter  the  set  of  the  canvas  for  days  to- 
gether: there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  unfortu- 
nately. Unfortunately  nothing  to  take  our  minds 
off  the  tragedy,  nothing  to  change  the  feeling  of 
misery  and  apprehension.  I  never  passed  such  mis- 
erable days :  they  seem  like  a  nightmare  to  me  still. 

One  morning  I  heard  a  row  on  deck  and  then 
what  sounded  like  a  shot.  I  threw  a  coat  on  and 
ran  quickly  up  the  companion.  To  my  astonish- 
ment there  was  no  one  steering,  the  helm  was  lashed 
amidship.  I  heard  a  shout  from  overhead  and  saw 
Donkin  and  Crawford  in  the  main-rigging  near  the 
heel  of  the  top-mast.  The  next  moment  I  noticed 
Winterstein  seated  on  deck  between  the  two  masts. 
He  was  playing  with  a  dead  snapper  making  be- 
lieve that  it  was  about  to  bite  him,  drawing  his 
hand  away  quickly  from  the  dead  mouth  with  a 
cackle  of  amusement. 

"Good  God!"  I  wondered,  "what's  the  matter?" 
As  I  went  toward  him,  it  suddenly  came  to  me: 
"He's  mad,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  was  all  broken 
up  with  pity. 

The  men  in  the  rigging  shouted,  "Look  out,"  just 
in  time  to  put  me  on  my  guard:  for  Winterstein  had 
a  revolver  beside  him,  and  as  soon  as  I  came  within 

133 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

his  line  of  vision  he  took  up  the  gun  and  leveled 
it  at  me  crying: 

"There's  another  of  'em,"  and  fired  without  more 
ado. 

I  called  out  to  him  and  backed  away,  but  as  he 
was  preparing  to  fire  again,  I  slid  across  the  deck 
to  the  lee  rigging  and  went  up  as  fast  as  I  could. 
Neither  Donkin  nor  Crawford  had  anything  new 
to  tell  me,  except  that  Crawford  had  been  slightly 
wounded  by  the  first  shot  Winterstein  had  fired  at 
him.     It  had  just  touched  the  right  shoulder. 

"It  burns  a  bit,"  he  said,  "though  it's  not  much 
more  than  skin  deep." 

The  nigger  and  Dyer,  it  appeared,  had  both  fled 
to  the  for'castle.  We  quickly  resolved  that  the  mo- 
ment Winterstein  went  down  below,  one  of  us  should 
seize  him  and  the  others  tie  him  up. 

"If  I  could  only  get  him  away  from  his  gun," 
said  Donkin,  "I'd  find  out  in  five  minutes  whether 
he's  as  strong  as  he  thinks  himself." 

'You'll  find  out  how  strong  he  is  soon  enough," 
I  replied.  He's  about  the  best  man  with  his  hands 
I  ever  saw.  It  will  be  all  the  three  of  us  can  do 
to  get  the  better  of  him." 

"I've   never   seen    the    man   yet,"    said    Donkin 
sturdily,  "I  was  afraid  of." 
134 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

The  trial  came  very  soon.  Of  a  sudden  Win- 
terstein  stood  up,  threw  the  dogfish  overboard  and 
leaving  his  revolver  on  deck  walked  quickly  aft, 
and  disappeared  down  the  companion.  The  next 
moment  we  slid  down  to  the  deck,  Crawford  armed 
himself  with  an  iron  belaying  pin,  a  fearsome  club 
at  close  quarters.  I  crept  stealthily  along  the 
weather  bulwarks  to  the  companion  and  Donkin 
strode  boldly  down  the  deck.  I  think  it  must  have 
been  Donkin's  heavy  step  that  Winterstein  heard; 
for  just  before  I  got  to  the  companion  he  passed 
up  it  like  a  flash  and  stood  facing  him. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  he  cried,  laughing,  "Mr.  Donkin 
wants  some  gruel,  does  he?  Take  it,  take  it  then," 
and  jumping  in  as  lightly  as  a  ballet  dancer,  he 
struck  out  right  and  left.  His  left  caught  Donkin 
in  the  face  and  the  blood  spurted  as  if  the  man  had 
been  hit  with  a  hammer,  the  second  blow  caught  him 
on  the  neck  and  hurled  him  down. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  cried  the  madman  again,  dancing 
about  so  as  to  face  Crawford. 

"Crawford  want  some,  too." 

Fortunately  for  Crawford,  Donkin  was  a  very 
strong  man,  and  scarcely  had  he  been  knocked  down 
when  he  picked  himself  up  again.  He  was  angry, 
too,   and  his  anger  did  him  no  good.     With  his 

*35 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

head  down  like  a  bull  he  rushed  at  the  skipper. 
Winterstein  side-stepped  him  to  windward  and  as 
he  passed  caught  him  a  left-handed  shot  under  the 
ear  with  such  force  that  Donkin  seemed  to  touch 
nothing  till  he  crashed  into  the  lee  bulwarks   and 
lay  there   quiet  enough.      My   chance   had  come: 
Winterstein  was  within  a  yard  of  me.     As  he  struck 
Donkin  I  threw  my  arms  about  his  waist  from  be- 
hind, pinning  his  right  arm  to  his  side.    At  the  same 
time  with  the  instinct  of  the  wrestler  I  lifted  him 
from  the  deck  so  as  to  make  him  as  helpless  as 
possible.     For  a  moment  he  struggled  wildly,  roar- 
ing like  a  bull;  then  in  a  second  broke  my  grip  and 
got  his  right  hand  free.     But  I  still  held  him  and 
as  I  was  well  behind  him  he  could  not  get  at  me 
easily.     But  he  was  too  strong.     The  next  moment 
his  right  hand  had  caught  my  collar  and  shifted  to 
my  neck  and  ear,  and  I  felt  myself  being  dragged 
round.     I  knew  that  the  struggle   could  only  last 
a  second  or  two,  and  just  as  I  was  expecting  his 
blow  I  heard  a  thud;  the  writhing  form  in  my  arms 
grew  still  and  heavy  and  slid  down  on  the  deck. 
Crawford  had  run  across  and  struck  Winterstein 
on  the  temple  with  the  iron  belaying  pin.     Almost 
at  the  same  moment  Dyer  and  Abraham  Lincoln 
ran  up  on  deck.     We  hauled  Donkin  up  out  of  the 
136 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

lee  scuppers  and  told  Dyer  to  throw  water  over 
him.  We  then  wiped  Winterstein's  bleeding  head 
and  carried  him  down  below  to  his  berth,  where 
we  tied  his  hands  and  feet.  Just  after  we  had  laid 
him  out,  Daisy  came  out  of  her  little  stateroom. 
She  looked  at  us  and  in  a  phrase  or  two  Crawford 
flung  the  tragedy  at  her.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice 
the  man.     She  came  straight  to  Winterstein. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  she  said,  imperiously,  kneel- 
ing down  beside  him. 

****** 

The  second  tragedy  seemed  to  fall  on  numbed 
senses.  I  scarcely  remember  any  sequence  of  time 
in  what  occurred  afterward.  I  knew  it  soon  came 
on  to  blow,  but  whether  it  was  that  day  or  the  next 
or  later,  I  could  not  tell.  I  remember  that  Win- 
terstein appeared  on  deck  again  and  sat  in  his  old 
place  on  the  poop  gazing  out  over  the  sea.  His 
madness  seemed  to  have  left  him,  but  his  brooding 
silence  now  was  often  broken  by  periods  during 
which  he  moved  about  muttering  to  himself  in- 
cessantly. Crawford  said  he  was  talking  of  his 
wife  or  to  her.  He  was  tragic,  terrible — a  figure 
of  despair. 

****** 

We  had  altered  our  course  again  and  were  steer- 

137 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ing  Nor'west.  The  Nor'east  wind  had  grown  to  a 
gale,  while  the  current  was  running  strong  under 
our  feet.  Between  the  tide  and  the  wind  the  sea 
grew  into  hillocks  and  hills  and  still  it  blew  harder 
and  harder.  .  .  . 

Long  ago  we  had  taken  all  the  sails  off  her,  leav- 
ing only  a  storm  jib  and  a  rag  of  tarpaulin  in  the 
mainmast  rigging  aft,  and  under  these  two  hand- 
kerchiefs the  schooner  lay  over  so  that  her  masts 
were  near  the  water. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Crawford  asked  me  to 
keep  a  sharp  lookout. 

"  'Frisco?"  I  asked,  and  he  nodded. 

I  never  was  so  glad  of  anything  in  my  life,  the 
band  round  my  chest  seemed  to  loosen. 

The  sun  was  going  down  in  a  sort  of  yellow  glare. 
For  over  an  hour  or  so  Winterstein  had  been  stand- 
ing by  the  tarpaulin  in  the  mainmast  rigging  staring 
over  the  waste  of  water.  I  clawed  my  way  aft  to 
him.  The  tarpaulin  sheltered  us  from  the  fury  of 
the  wind  and  made  an  oasis  of  quiet  in  the  uproar. 

"We'll  soon  be  in  'Frisco!"  I  cried. 

He  looked  at  me  with  unseeing  hopeless  eyes :  my 
heart  turned  to  water.  Suddenly  he  caught  me  by 
the  shoulder. 

"I  can't  stand  it,"  he  said,  as  if  confiding  to  me; 

138 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

but  in  a  tone  so  low  I  could  hardly  hear  him.  "I 
can't  stand  it." 

"Time  will  soften  the  pain,"  I  said.  The  words 
rang  false  even  to  me. 

"No,  no,"  he  shook  his  head.  "It  gets  worse. 
If  it  had  been  an  accident,  I  might  have  stood  it:  if 
some  one  else  had  done  it,  perhaps;  but  I  did  it, 
I :  that's  the  thorn  that  festers  and  stings  and  burns, 
and  gets  worse  not  better,  worse  all  the  time.  .  .  . 
I  was  glad  to  go  mad :  I  wish  I  could  go  mad  again 
and  not  think  of  it  all  the  time."  And  he  passed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead  in  weary  wretched-' 
ness.  .  .  . 

"If  I  hadn't  loved  her  so  I  might  sleep  now  and 
then  and  forget.  I  never  cared  for  any  other 
woman:  she  was  perfect  to  me  from  the  beginning. 
Hell,"  he  broke  off  raging,  "what  sort  of  a  fool  was 
I — eh?  was  there  ever  such  a  fool — a  damned  fool 
— damned.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  know  why  I  did  it:  it  just  took  me  at 
the  moment.  Hell,"  and  his  eyes  were  wild.  "I'm 
not  fit  to  live :  this  world's  no  place  for  fools,"  and 
he  laughed  mirthlessly.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  stand  it,  I  just  can't  stand  it!  Oh,  my 
sweet :  fancy  hurting  you !   .  .  . 

"Is  there  any  other  life,  eh?"     I  could  not  an- 

139 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

swer — my  heart  ached  for  him.  "I  never  took 
much  stock  in  it;  but  I'll  soon  know.  So  long," 
and  he  turned  into  the  force  of  the  wind  and  strode 
aft.  Even  then  I  noticed  that  he  could  walk  the 
deck  in  the  gale  that  seemed  to  blow  my  breath 
down  my  throat  and  choke  me. 

I  clawed  my  way  forward  again.  Winterstein 
was  beyond  my  help.  I  was  glad  of  the  gale  and 
the  wild  seas  and  the  danger.  I  didn't  want  to 
think.     I  was  filled  with  fear  and  pain.  .  .  . 

The  wind  came  harder  and  harder.  The  tre- 
mendous weight  of  it  seemed  to  flatten  the  sea,  and 
you  could  only  put  your  head  above  the  bulwarks 
if  you  held  on  with  both  hands. 

All  that  night  Crawford  stuck  to  the  helm  and 
it  needed  all  his  seamanship  to  bring  us  through 
the  storm. 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  lifted  the  light  and  a  little 
later  we  got  a  little  under  the  shelter  of  the  land 
and  the  sea  was  not  so  bad.  But  the  bar  gave  us 
an  awful  half  hour.  The  little  schooner  came  out 
of  the  broken  water  with  decks  swept  clean:  the 
boat  had  gone  and  all  the  bulwarks,  and  The  Rose 
was  leaking  in  a  dozen  places:  she  would  never  go 
to  sea  again. 

When  we  came  to  anchor  off  Meiggs's  wharf 
140 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

about  three  o'clock  we  had  all  had  enough  of  it. 
In  spite  of  the  fear  that  the  schooner  might  founder 
under  us  and  though  I  was  frozen  cold  and  wet,  I 
went  below  and  slept  without  turning  in.  I  had 
not  had  a  wink  for  two  nights  and  had  eaten  nothing 
but  a  biscuit  for  thirty-six  hours. 

Crawford  woke  me,  bright  sunshine  fell  down  the 
hatchway:  as  soon  as  I  opened  my  eyes,  I  knew 
something  was  wrong. 

"What  is  it?"  I  cried. 

"Winterstein  went  overboard  in  the  night,"  he 
said,  "I  don't  know  when,  and  the  girl's  been  in 
faint  after  faint.  Donkin's  going  to  take  her  up 
to  the  house.  I  guess  you  had  better  get  up,  she 
may  want  to  see  you.  But  don't  say  anything  harsh 
to  her:  she's  had  it  bad  enough.  .   .   ." 

I  was  on  deck  in  five  minutes  in  time  to  see  Don- 
kin  bring  Daisy  out  of  the  companion  and  take  her 
across  to  the  ladder.  He  fairly  lifted  her  into  the 
boat,  and  as  he  turned  to  row  her  ashore  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  face.  It  made  me  gasp:  I  never 
saw  such  a  change,  never.  Her  face  had  gone  quite 
small  like  a  little  child's,  and  as  white  as  if  it  had 
been  made  out  of  snow.  .   .  . 

I  could  not  stop  on  board  the  schooner;  I  guess 

141 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

everybody  left  it  as  soon  as  he  could.     I  came  East 
the  same  week  and  neve»-  saw  any  of  'em  again. 

**;  *  *  *  +  w* 

A  pretty  bad  story,  ain't  it?  A  brute  of  a  story. 
Just  like  life.  No  meaning  in  it:  the  punishment 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  sin.  Sometimes  it's 
like  that.  Sometimes  things  a  thousand  times  worse 
go  unpunished  and  then  for  a  little  mistake  or  slip, 
tragedy  piles  itself  on  tragedy.  There  ain't  no 
meaning  in  it,  no  sense.  I  don't  believe  there's  any 
purpose  either,  anywhere-  it's  just  chance. 

The  judge  broke  oft. 

The  dreadful  story  had  held  us;  now  some  of 
the  men  stretched  themselves,  lit  -cigars,  or  took 
drinks,  but  no  one  spoke  for  quite  a  while. 

Suddenly  Charlie  Railton  said: 

"That  Daisy  was  a  wild  piece,  sure;  but  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  tell  us  something  about  Mrs. 
Amory,  Judge.    I  thought  perhaps  you  knew  her." 

"I  knew  a  good  deal  about  her,"  replied  Barnett 
quietly,  "though  I  never  met  her.  I  was  mixed  up 
in  her  affairs  after  her  husband  died.  I  was  agent 
for  the  land  she  bought  for  almshouses.  I  let  her 
have  it  cheaper  because  of  the  object." 

"I  ought  to  have  met  her  a  dozen  times,  but  I 
never  did,  strange  to  say.  Of  course  I  knew  all 
142 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

about  her  for  the  last  two  or  three  years.  I  knew 
she  was  a  mighty  good  woman.  Her  lawyer,  Hutch- 
ins,  whom  I  knew  well,  always  said  so,  said  she  was 
the  best  woman  he  ever  saw,  and  one  of  the  kindest. 
Amory  just  worshiped  her,  I  believe,  and  she 
brought  up  his  daughters  by  his  first  wife  splendidly. 
She  had  only  one  child  of  her  own  and  it  died.  It 
nearly  killed  her,  Hutchins  said.  A  mighty  good 
woman,  and  I  ought  to  have  met  her  a  dozen  times, 
but  it  never  happened  so.   .  .   . 

"When  she  died  Hutchins  insisted  that  I  should 
go  to  the  funeral.  You  know  the  house.  I  guess 
it's  one  of  the  finest  in  the  States.  They  laid  her 
out  in  the  music-room.  It  looks  like  a  church  with 
its  high  painted  windows  and  old  tapestries  and 
open  timber  roof:  the  paintings  are  all  master- 
pieces: three  or  four  Rembrandts,  I  believe. 
Well,  they  did  the  room  up  as  a  chapelle  ardente — 
and  laid  her  out  there  in  state,  and  all  Philadelphia 
went  to  visit  her  and  a  good  many  of  her  girls  cried 
over  her.  I  went  with  Hutchins  and  nothing  would 
do  but  he  would  have  me  go  right  up  to  the  coffin. 
The  moment  I  looked  at  her,  the  moment  I  saw  her 
face,  the  little  face  no  bigger  than  your  hand,  all 
frozen  white;  I  knew  her.  That  was  the  face  I 
had  seen  in  the  boat  when  Donkin  rowed  her  ashore 

143 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

thirty  years  before,  "Jezebel's  daughter,"  I  used  to 
call  her  to  myself.  .  .  . 

"I  was  just  struck  dumb,  but  I  knew  that  was 
why  I  had  never  met  her.  She  had  not  wanted  to 
meet  me.  I  was  not  a  bit  surprised  when  two 
or  three  days  later  I  had  a  letter  from  her. 
Hutchins  had  to  read  the  will  and  in  it  he  found  a 
letter  addressed  to  me.  I  have  not  got  it  by  me, 
but  I  can  tell  you  some  of  what  was  in  it;  she  had 
no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  I  was  wrong  to 
judge  her  as  I  did  at  the  time.  Young  people  are 
mighty  severe  in  their  judgings.  As  you  get  older 
you  get  more  tolerant.  .  .  . 

"With  the  letter  there  was  a  little  box,  and  in 
the  box  a  string  of  black  pearls,  the  same  I  had 
given  her  sister.  Mrs.  Amory  began  by  telling  me 
that  she  had  wanted  to  give  them  back  to  me,  as 
soon  as  Donkin  had  told  her  they  were  mine,  but 
all  trace  of  me  had  been  lost,  and  she  had  never 
heard  of  me  again  till  long  after  her  husband's 
death,  when  the  end  was  near.  She  asked  me  to 
give  the  black  pearls  to  my  eldest  daughter  Kate, 
and  she  left  me  a  string  of  white  ones  to  give  to 
my  youngest  daughter.  She  seemed  to  know  all 
about  us.  .  .  .  She  told  me  I  had  always  mis- 
judged her  and  I  guess  I  had.  .  .  . 
144 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 

"Winterstein,  it  appeared,  knew  her  first;  used 
to  meet  her  at  the  baths  and  swim  with  her  and 
make  up  to  her.  She  thought  he  was  in  love  with 
her,  and  girl-like  gave  him  her  soul;  made  him  her 
god.  Just  before  she  went  back  to  school  she 
brought  him  home  and  introduced  him  to  her  sister, 
thinking  that  through  her  sister  she  would  keep  in 
touch  with  him.  She  heard  no  more  till  her  sister 
told  her  they  were  married.  She  said  it  drove  her 
nearly  crazy.   .   .   . 

"I  guess  Rose  never  knew  that  Daisy  loved  him, 
but  it  was  a  bad  tangle.  Daisy  did  not  say  that 
Rose  knew,  but  she  said  Rose  ought  to  have  known 
— anybody  would  have  known.  I  think  she  was 
wrong.  She  was  judging  Rose  by  herself;  she  was 
mighty  quick  and  observant  while  Rose  just  lived 
like  a  flower.  Besides  Rose  would  never  have 
wanted  her  on  board  the  schooner  if  she  had  even 
suspected  the  truth.  No;  Rose  acted  in  all  in- 
nocence. But  Daisy  couldn't  see  that;  she  was  hurt 
too  badly  to  judge  fairly. 

"She  did  not  excuse  herself  in  the  letter.  She 
confessed  it  was  her  wounded  vanity  led  her  to  pro- 
voke Winterstein.  But  she  had  no  notion  of  any- 
thing worse.  'I  saw  he  admired  me,'  she  said,  'and 
that  pleased  me.     I  was  hard  and  reckless;  I  felt 

H5 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

hurt  and  cheated:  he  was  mine  and  I  could  have 
made  a  great  man  of  him,  I  thought.  Oh,  I  was 
horribly  to  blame ;  but  he  caught  my  head  that  night, 
and  kissed  me  against  my  will.  I  could  not  get 
away.  If  I  had  been  standing  up,  his  lips  should 
never  have  touched  me.  You  will  believe  me;  won't 
you?  and  forgive  me;  now  that  I  am  dead?  .  .   .' 

"I  forgave  her  all  right,"  the  Judge  said,  "or 
rather  I  understood  her  and  there  was  nothing  to 
forgive.  There's  Angel  and  Devil  in  all  of  us, 
Charlie,  and  the  Heaven  and  Hell,  too,  is  of  our 
own  making,  it  seems  to  me.  .  .  ." 


146 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

CHARACTERS 

Rebecca  Isaac.     A   brunette  of  seventeen,  very 

pretty:  small  with  regular  features  and  briU 

liant  coloring.    David  Isaac's  daughter. 
David  Isaac.    A  Jew  about  sixty  with  high  narrow 

forehead  and  soft,  indecisive  chin,  gray  hair 

and  beard,  a  little  bent. 
Reuben  Levison.    A  banker,  very  rich.    A  little 

shorter  than  Isaac,  inclined  to  be  stout,  bald. 

David  Isaac's  cousin. 
Mrs.    Goldschmidt.     An    old   woman   attending 

David  Isaac. 

Rebecca.  So  I  can't  get  the  dress.  Oh,  it's  too 
bad.  I've  been  working  for  a  fortnight  and  have 
everything  ready,  and  now  I  can't  go  to  the  dance. 
It's  too  bad.     [Stamps  with  rage.~\ 

Isaac.  But  vy  not,  tear;  you  can  vear  something 
else. 

149 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Rebecca.  I've  nothing  to  wear.  My  clothes  a^e 
too  shocking.     I  never  get  a  new  frock — never. 

Isaac.  I'm  sorry,  tear;  but  I  can't  get  six  pounds 
in  a  moment. 

Rebecca.  A  moment — a  week,  you  mean;  you 
said  a  week  ago  you'd  try,  try — h'm ! 

Isaac.  And  I  did  try,  my  tear,  I  did  indeed,  but 
I'm  getting  old  and  I  can't  sell  de  jewelry  like  I 
used  and  dey  won't  trust  me  now  mit  fine  pieces, 
only  cheap  shtuff. 

Rebecca.  Oh,  if  I  were  a  man,  if  only  I  were  a 
man! 

Isaac.  Don't  say  dat,  dear  I  Vot  would  you 
do?  You  are  so  pretty,  like  an  ainchel,  my  little 
girl.  [He  puts  his  hand  caressingly  on  her  shoul- 
ders.] Everything  vill  come  right  mit  a  little  pa- 
tience. 

Rebecca.  Patience,  that's  what  you  always  say, 
patience — I  hate  the  word.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  see 
your  cousin  Reuben? 

[Isaac  shrugs  his  shoulders  despairingly  and  closes 
his  eyes  in  token  that  nothing's  to  be  hoped  from 
that  quarter:  the  girl  goes  on.~\ 

Why  not  take  me  to  see  him? 

Isaac.    Vot  could  you  do?    He's  as  old  as  me. 

Rebecca.   Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do:  but  I'd 
150 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

do  anything  rather  than  rot  away  in  this  hole  like 
the  others.  I  hate  the  Commercial  Road  and  the 
flashy  foreigners,  leering  and  sneering.  I  love 
gentlemen  like  you  see  in  the  park  on  Sunday,  quiet, 
dignified.  ...  I  hate  common  people  and  poverty. 
It's  a  crime  to  be  poor — a  crime. 

Isaac.  Oh,  my  tear,  don't  say  dat:  I've  alvays 
worked  hard,  alvays.  I  thought  honesty  und  vork 
would  make  me  rich,  but  they  didn't.  I've  alvays 
told  my  customers  the  truth,  said  what  de  tings 
cost  or  nearly:  but  de  world  likes  to  be  cheated, 
likes  to  tink  the  false  stones  real 

Rebecca.  And  the  false  stones  are  real.  Oh,  if 
I  were  a  man !  I'd  tell  the  women  the  rings  would 
buy  'em  sweethearts  and  money  and  happiness.  I'd 
fool  them  as  they  want  to  be  fooled.  Why  not?  If 
you  don't,  some  one  else  will  and  you'll  get  left, 
that's  all,  stranded,  old,  poor,  despised;  poor — it's 
the  only  crime ! 

Isaac.  I  was  alvays  too  scrupulous,  alvays  too 
honorable,  and  now  it's  too  late  to  begin  all  over 
again.  Besides,  nobody  trusts  me  now,  dey  all  know 
I'm  poor.  Dey  used  to  tink  I  vos  rich  and  a  miser 
and  dey  vould  give  me  anyting,  now  dey  know,  dey 
don't  trust  me  no  more,  dey  know  I  am  honest  and 
dey  don't  trust  me. 

151 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Rebecca.  Why  didn't  you  go  to  your  cousin  and 
make  him  take  you  into  his  bank?  Not  now,  I 
mean,  but  when  you  first  married. 

Isaac.  I  vent  to  him,  but  he  said  I  vos  a  fool  to 
marry  a  poor  girl  vidout  a  penny  of  dot,  and  Rachel 
ven  she  heard  it  vos  angry  and  vould  not  let  me  go 
near  him  even  ven  you  vos  born. 

Rebecca.  He  doesn't  know  anything  about  me, 
does  he?  Nothing?  You're  sure?  .  .  .  Tell  me 
about  him?    Is  he  big  and  strong  and  hard? 

Isaac.  He's  smaller  nor  me,  a  little  shtout,  bald 
he  vos  too;  but  he  has  a  vay  vid  'im. 

Rebecca.     Is  the  bank  large? 

Isaac.  Oh,  a  great  place  mid  dozens  of  clerks 
and  brass  railings,  and  you  hear  ze  money  singing 
all  day  long — ah ! 

Rebecca  [clasping  her  hands  J.  Oh,  tell  me  all 
about  it,  all!  I  looked  into  a  bank  the  other  day; 
it  was  bare  and  cold,  but  dignified.  Has  he  a  room 
to  himself?  And  a  man  outside  the  door  to  stop 
people  going  in? 

Isaac.  Yes,  on  the  first  floor.  He  is  not  near 
the  clerks.  All  by  himself  upstairs  in  a  great  room, 
vid  thick  carpets  and  beautiful  chairs  vid  green 
leather,  real  Chippendale  chairs — beautiful.  And 
dere  is  a  room  in  which  you  vait,  mit  all  de  papers, 

152 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

papers  in  Cherman,  French  and  English.  And  dere 
is  anodder  room  mit  a  long  table  and  blotting  pads 
and  seats  all  about.    Oh,  it  is  a  great  place ! 

Rebecca.  But  tell  me  about  him?  Is  he  mar- 
ried? What  is  his  wife  like?  Has  he  any  children? 
Tell  me  all  about  him. 

Isaac.  I  don't  know  anyting,  my  tear,  I've  never 
asked. 

Rebecca.  Never  asked!  Oh!  Has  he  a  motor? 
Is  his  chauffeur  in  livery?  Have  you  seen  a  woman 
in  it?  Oh,  if  I  had  only  seen  the  outside  of  it,  I'd 
know  if  he  was  married  or  not.  I'd  know  from  the 
chauffeur,  I'd  know  from  the  look  of  the  carriage. 
Is  it  open  or  closed?  Does  it  ever  have  flowers  in 
it?    Where  do  you  keep  your  eyes? 

Isaac.  I've  only  seen  it  outside  de  door.  I've 
never  looked  at  it  except  to  tink  how  fine  it  was  and 
how  big. 

Rebecca.    Is  it  big?    How  many  seats  inside? 

Isaac.    I  don't  know. 

Rebecca.  Oh,  my  goodness!  My  goodness! 
How  shall  I  get  away  from  all  this?  How  shall  I? 
Can't  you  take  me  to  see  him? 

Isaac.    How  can  I,  my  tear,  how  can  I? 

Rebecca.    When  is  his  birthday? 

153 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Isaac.  His  birthday?  Oh,  soon,  now,  in  July, 
the  fift. 

Rebecca.  That's  only  a  fortnight  to  wait  and 
then  you  must  take  me.  I  should  have  a  present 
for  him.  I'll  ask  Julia  to  embroider  some  handker- 
chiefs with  his  initials,  and  I'll  say  I  did  them. 

Isaac  [admiringly].     You  clever  girl! 

Rebecca.  Now  you  must  go  out  every  day,  father, 
and  tell  lies  about  the  jewelry.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? Get  the  girls  to  put  it  on.  Tell  them  the 
rings  make  their  hands  look  pretty,  that  a  necklace 
makes  them  look  rich,  like  fine  ladies.  Say  anything 
to  make  me  enough  money  for  a  new  dress.  I 
must  have  a  new  dress. 

Isaac.    I  vill  do  my  best,  but 

Rebecca  [pouting].    But,  but,  always  but 


[July:  Isaac  waiting.    Rebecca  dressed  to  go  out.] 

Isaac.  Vy,  you've  got  your  hair  down.  Oh,  it 
is  pretty.  You  do  look  pretty,  but  dat  dress  is 
tight.  No?  Veil,  you  know  best.  But  you've 
powdered  your  face.  Not?  Veil,  you  know  best. 
I  like  you  as  you  vos  every  day.  You  look  younger 
and  older.  I  don't  know  vot.  Veil,  veil,  you  know 
best. 

154 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Rebecca.  My  hair's  down,  of  course,  I'm  fif- 
teen, remember. 

Isaac.  He!  he!  Vot  a  girl  it  is!  You  are 
seventeen,  Rebecca.  You  vos  born  on  the  Fourth 
of  April,  1887.  Dot's  vy  ve  called  you  "Jubilee" 
for  your  second  name,  dot's  vy. 

Rebecca.  My  second  name's  Judith,  and  I  was 
born  in  July,  '90.    I'm  not  fifteen  yet. 

Isaac.  My  tear,  you  are  mistaken.  You  are 
seventeen  years  past,  I'm  sure. 

Rebecca  [stamping].  You  stupid,  stupid.  I  won- 
der mother  could  stand  you.     I'm  fifteen,  I  tell  you. 

Isaac.  Veil,  veil,  my  dear.  If  you've  made  up 
your  mind  I'm  sure  you're  right.  You  know  best, 
just  as  your  mother  vos  alvays  right.  Alvays  a 
master-woman,  a 

Rebecca.  Oh,  come  along.  You'd  prose  away 
there  all  day.  [After  starting.']  What  will  you  say 
to  Uncle  Reuben? 

Isaac.  Vy,  vot  you  told  me.  Dot  I  vant  him  to 
know  you,  you  are  so  pretty — vot? 

Rebecca.  What  age  is  he  exactly?  What  is  he 
like? 

Isaac.  He's  my  first  cousin.  He  must  be  over 
fifty.     He's  shtout  and  shtrong.     He's  only  had  to 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

take  care  of  himself  all  his  life.     His  father  vos 
rich.    But  vot  vill  you  say  to  him? 

Rebecca.  I  don't  know  till  I  see  him.  He's  very 
rich,  you  say,  a  real  millionaire?  An  English  mil- 
lionaire? 

Isaac.  My  tear,  he's  rich  enough  for  anyting. 
He  has  two  or  tree  million.  A  house  in  Hampstead 
like  a  palace,  and  servants  everywhere.  He  is  de 
Reuben  Levison — de  great  banker. 

Rebecca.  And  you  went  to  him  when  mother 
was  ill  and  he  would  not  help  you.  What  did  he  say 
then? 

Isaac.  He  said  so  I  make  my  bed  so  I  must  lie 
on  it,  and  tings  like  dat. 

Rebecca.  How  can  men  be  such  brutes?  If  he 
had  been  poor  with  children  of  his  own,  I  could 
understand  it.  But  rich  and  without  any  one,  I 
can't.    He  must  be  hard  like  stone  and  cruel. 

Isaac.  Oh,  no,  my  tear.  But  the  rich  have  to 
refuse  to  give  at  de  beginning  and  de  habit  becomes 
second  nature  to  dem.  Besides,  if  dey  didn't  love 
money  more  dan  anyting,  dey'd  never  get  rich, 
never. 

Rebecca.  Why  didn't  you  get  rich?  Didn't 
mother  want  you  to  get  rich?  Didn't  she  spur  you 
on? 

156 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Isaac.  She  loved  me,  und  ve  vos  happy.  I  vos 
too  honest.  I  told  de  truth,  not  lies.  But  ven  I 
tink  of  you,  I  am  sorry.  I  solt  more  this  week  from 
lies,  and  it  pleases  everybody  better.  I  told  the 
girls  dey  all  looked  so  sweet  and  beautiful,  as  you 
told  me  to.  Dot's  how  I  got  you  the  dress,  and  it  is 
pretty.  But  it's  short,  do  you  like  it  so  short?  You 
are  very  pretty  in  it. 

Rebecca.  I'm  getting  hot.  I'll  have  to  use  my 
puff.  Why  couldn't  we  drive?  Everything  is 
against  the  poor — everything.  .  .  .  You  must  tell 
him  I'm  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  Road  and  not  fif- 
teen yet. 

Isaac.  But  vy  so  young,  my  tear,  fifteen,  it's  a 
child. 

Rebecca.  Julia  Hoppe  said  old  men  liked  chil- 
dren.   That's  why,  if  you  must  know. 

Isaac.    How  clever  you  are,  my  tear. 

Rebecca.     If  you  hated  poverty  like  I  do  you'd 

be  clever. 

[Reuben  Levison's  office."] 

•  •••••• 

[Reuben  is  seated  at  a  table.  He  looks  at  Isaac 
with  the  aversion  of  the  rich  man  for  the  poor  re- 
lation.] 

Reuben.  What  can  I  do  for  you,  David,  what 
do  you  want? 

157 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Isaac.  It's  your  birthday,  Reuben,  and  I've 
brought  my  girl  to  see  you. 

Mr.  Levison.  Your  girl?  What  do  you  mean? 
Your  wife? 

Isaac  [hurriedly].  No,  no,  my  wife's  dead.  I 
mean  my  little  child.  She's  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
Road — the  prettiest  in  London,  and  so  smart  and 
clever,  and  she  wants  to  see  you,  Reuben — her  rich 
uncle ! 

Mr.  Levison.  But  I  don't  want  to  see  her,  I've 
too  much  to  do,  and  I  can't  waste  time  on  children. 
I'm  busy,  you  must  tell  her  that. 

Isaac  [twisting  his  hands  about].  Oh,  Reuben, 
I  can't,  I  can't,  she'll  be  so  disappointed  at  not  see- 
ing you.  You  can't  refuse.  She  has  worked  your 
initials  on  some  handkerchiefs,  oh,  so  beautifully. 
She  is  the  prettiest  girl  in  all  London,  she  is  like  a 
flower. 

Mr.  Levison.  What's  her  name?  What  age  is 
she? 

Isaac  [hurriedly"]-  Her  name's  Rebecca,  she's — 
she's  grown  up. 

Mr.  Levison.    All  right,  bring  her  in.    I  have  no 
time  to  spare.     I  can  only  give  her  a  moment  or 
two.     I  thought  perhaps  you  wanted  to  see  me  on 
some  business. 
158 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Isaac.  Oh,  I'll  bring  her,  I'll  bring  her  at  vonce. 
[He  hurries  out  of  the  room.] 

[A  moment  or  two  after;  Rebecca  comes  in  alone. 
Reuben  Levison  looks  at  her,  his  sulky,  annoyed  air 
vanishes.  He  gets  up  as  the  girl  comes  toward 
him.] 

Mr.  Levison.  Take  a  chair,  Miss  Isaac,  take  a 
chair.  [Putting  one  ready  for  her.]  What  can  I 
do  for  you? 

Rebecca  [smiling  saucily].  Tell  me  first  that  the 
uncle  is  not  ashamed  of  his  niece. 

Mr.  Levison  [a  little  embarrassed,  laughs]. 
Ashamed,  indeed,  who  could  be  ashamed  of  so 
pretty  a  girl? 

Rebecca  [pouting].  Yet  you've  let  all  these  years 
pass  without  caring  to  know  anything  about  the 
pretty  girl. 

Mr.  Levison.  Now  is  that  fair,  Miss  Rebecca? 
How  did  I  know  that  Miss  Isaac  was  so  pretty? 
How  could  I  guess?    I  thought  you  were  a  child. 

Rebecca  [smiling].  Well,  I  forgive  you  now. 
[She  produces  the  handkerchiefs.]  I've  brought 
you  something  for  your  birthday.  But  perhaps 
Mrs.  Levison  won't  like  you  to  use  them.    You  see 

159 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

I've  worked  your  initials  on  them.     [She  lays  them 
on  the  desk.] 

Mr.  Levison  [laughing].  They're  very  pretty, 
and  I'm  very  much  obliged.  Of  course  I'll  use 
them.  There's  no  Mrs.  Levison — you  see  I've  had 
no  time  to  get  married;  now  I'm  too  old,  too  ugly. 

Rebecca.  No,  indeed  you're  not  ugly.  I  won't 
have  you  slander  yourself.  And  you  don't  look  a 
bit  old.  I  hate  boys,  they're  no  good.  [She  throws 
him  a  long  glance  from  under  her  eyelashes.] 

Mr.  Levison.  [He  gets  up  as  if  drawn  by  a  mag- 
net and  stands  over  her.]  I  wish  I  was  young  and 
handsome  enough  for  you,  Rebecca.  May  I  call 
you  Rebecca? 

Rebecca.  Of  course  you  may.  [Seriously.]  I 
don't  care  for  handsome  men;  they're  always  think- 
ing of  themselves.  [Looking  up  at  him.]  You  look 
strong  and  I  love  strength. 

Mr.  Levison-  Oh,  I'm  strong  enough,  but  I'm 
old,  little  girl.  What  age  are  you,  Rebecca?  You 
look  half  child,  half  woman. 

Rebecca  [looking  up  at  him].    I'm  fifteen,  nearly. 

Mr.  Levison  [has  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulder, 
but  now  draws  them  away  quickly].     Only  fifteen,  I 
say,  that's  too  young.     My  God!  I'd  have  thought 
you  sixteen  at  least. 
1 60 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

[He  moves  back  from  her,  his  face  a  little  flushed.'] 

Rebecca  [looking  at  him  with  eyes  that  drink  him 
in].  I  said  "nearly  fifteen,"  but  I  may  be  nearer 
sixteen.  [Archly.]  Mayn't  I?  Don't  you  know 
that  all  women  make  themselves  younger  than  they 
are.  [She  smiles.]  Suppose  I  said  I  was  sixteen 
past? 

Mr.  Levison.  [His  face  clears,  and  he  steps 
nearer  her,  smiling.  She  rises.]  But  are  you? 
That's  the  point?     [He  lifts  her  chin  in  his  hand.] 

Rebecca  [burning  her  boats].  Yes,  I'm  over  six- 
teen. 

Mr.  Levison.     Really? 

Rebecca  [nods  her  head].  I  was  born  in  '87, 
I'm  a  Jubilee  girl.  I'm  just  seventeen,  you  see,  quite 
old  already. 

Mr.  Levison.  [Grown  bold  again,  he  slips  his 
arm  round  her  shoulders.]  I  think  you're  a  witch, 
Rebecca,  and  know  just  what  I  am  thinking  of. 

Rebecca  [looking  up  at  him].  What  are  you 
thinking  of? 

Mr.  Levison.  [Their  eyes  meet.]  Of  you,  of 
course.  I  think  you're  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  I've 
ever  seen  in  my  life. 

Rebecca  [looking  up  at  him  again].  But  do  you 
mean  it? 

161 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Mr.  Levison  [drawing  her  to  him~\.  Of  course  I 
mean  it,  and  clever,  too,  if  all  your  father  says  is 
true.  By  the  way  [he  draws  back  again]  where  is 
he? 

Rebecca  [negligently'].  In  the  waiting-room,  I 
suppose. 

Mr.  Levison.  [His  eyes  narrow  cunningly.] 
Why  didn't  he  come  in  with  you? 

Rebecca  [her  eyebrows  lifted],  I  did  not  want 
him  to  come.     Do  you  want  him? 

Mr.  Levison  [suspiciously].    Why  does  he  wait? 

Rebecca.  To  take  me  home  again,  I  suppose: 
he  brought  me,  you  know. 

Mr.  Levison.  Oh,  I  don't  like  that,  you  see  I 
have  my  business  to  think  of.  People  may  want  to 
see  me  at  any  time.  I'm  really  very  busy.  I  told 
your  father  so.     [Goes  back  to  his  desk.] 

Rebecca  [biting  her  lips].  I'm  sorry.  Do  you 
want  me  to  go?    I'm  sorry. 

Mr.  Levison  [recalled  to  full  self-possession]. 
You  see  I'm  busy,  my  dear  Miss  Isaac.  I'm  very 
busy  and  your  father'll  get  tired  waiting. 

Rebecca.  He's  used  to  waiting  for  me.  He's 
reading  some  old  German  paper,  and  has  forgotten 
all  about  poor  little  Rebecca. 

Mr.  Levison  [seating  himself  resolutely  at  his 
162 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

desk  again  and  beginning  to  gather  up  some  papers']. 
It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come,  Miss  Rebecca.  A 
very  agreeable  surprise,  but  I  don't  like  to  keep 
Isaac  waiting,  and  I'm  really  very  busy  this  morn- 
ing. 

Rebecca.  Well,  good-bye,  Uncle  [going  toward 
him  and  holding  out  her  hand,  adding  in  a  low,  re~ 
proachful  voice]  :  You're  not  angry  with  me  for 
coming,  are  you?  I  was  so  eager  to  meet  the  great 
Mr.  Levison.  But  now  I'm  afraid  you're  angry 
with  me. 

Mr.  Levison  [gets  up  and  takes  her  hand].  Oh, 
no,  I'm  not  angry,  Rebecca  :  you  know  I'm  not  angry. 
But — but  I  am  really  very  busy,  some  other  day, 
eh?  You'll  come  again,  eh?  Another  time — by 
yourself,  eh? 

[Their  eyes  meet,  and  again  he  flushes  while  putting 
his  other  hand  on  hers.  She  casts  her  eyes  down, 
turns  and  walks  quietly  to  the  door.] 

Mr.  Levison.  [As  she  disappears  he  puffs  out 
his  breath.]  My  God,  she's  pretty,  a  little  devil,  a 
little  witch.  But  I  did  right.  That  old  father's 
cunning.  What  did  he  want,  waiting  there?  Down 
at  heel,  as  usual.  How  much  would  he  want?  .  .  . 
Phew!     I  am  hot.   .   .  .  Who  would  have  thought 

163. 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

such  an  old  Cheap-Jack  would  have  had  such  a 
daughter.  I  very  nearly  kissed  her.  If  I  had, 
would  she  have  taken  it?  My  God,  I  believe  she 
would.  What  a  sweet  girl !  But  the  father  outside 
the  door.  Pouf,  it  makes  you  careful.  ...  I  won- 
der is  she  sixteen  past  or  did  she  only  say  it  to  give 
me  confidence.  Oh,  she  must  be  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen. She's  perfectly  formed,  her  legs  and  breasts, 
yes,  seventeen  she  must  be,  a  perfect  little  witch. 
.  .  .  I  wonder  does  she  know  what  she's  doing? 
Sometimes  she  has  such  a  child-air,  her  eyes  are 
liquid.  Some  girls  are  coquettes  in  the  cradle. 
Whew!  ...  I  must  have  Rubie  in.  Shall  I  give 
orders  not  to  let  them  in  again?  No,  I  won't. 
{Rings  bell  on  desk,  the  door  opens  at  once.  A  sort 
of  upper  servant  enters.']  Send  Mr.  Rubie  to  me, 
and  I'm  "not  in"  to  Mr.  Isaac  any  more,  you  under- 
stand? to  Mr.  Isaac;  but  if  Miss  Isaac  calls,  let  her 
in. 

Servant.    Yes,  sir. 

•  •••••• 

Isaac.    Vot  did  he  say,  tear,  vot  did  he  say? 
Rebecca.    Why  did  you  wait?    Let  us  go. 
Isaac.    Was  he  nice?     Did  he — was  he  kind? 
Rebecca  [in  a  hard  voice].    Let  us  go. 
[She  goes  out  with  her  parasol  ready  to  open,  and 
164 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

flashing  bright  smiles  to  every  one  she  meets.  Isaac 
trots  behind,  but  when  they  get  into  the  street  he 
ranges  up  beside  her.~\ 

Isaac.  Vot  did  he  say,  my  tear?  I  am  very 
anxious. 

Rebecca  [looking  at  him  with  hard  eyes'].  What 
was  there  to  say?  You  were  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door.     Why  didn't  you  go  away? 

Isaac.  Oh,  my  tear.  I  did  whatever  you  vanted. 
I  thought  it  best  to  be  near  you.  If  you  had  called 
out  I  vould  have  come  in  at  vonce. 

[Rebecca  looks  at  him  contemptuously .~\ 

Rebecca.  Come  in?  What  for?  [Puts  her  nose 
in  the  air."] 

Isaac  [with  his  irresponsible  optimism  tries  again 
and  again  to  engage  her  in  conversation].  Vot  fine 
offices  and  vot  nice  servants !  His  man,  dat  man 
in  black  came  in  and  spoke  to  me.  He  remembered 
me  from  years  ago.  Reuben's  not  married.  I 
thought  you  vould  like  to  know.  The  man  told  me 
he  lived  alone  at  Hampstead  [Rebecca  looks  at  him 
pityingly]  and  he  has  two  motors,  one  closed  for  the 
City,  and  an  open  one.  Oh,  he  has  got  on  tremen- 
dously. Lords  come  to  him  in  his  office  und  great 
people.  [Rebecca  looks  at  him  reflectively.]  Oh, 
I  found  out  a  lot. 

165 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Rebecca.    You  did.    What  did  you  tell  the  man? 

Isaac.  I  say  where  we  live,  and  he  ask  me  who 
you  were ;  I  say  my  daughter.  I  am  proud  of  you, 
tear.  I  said  I  had  brought  you  because  you  had 
wanted  to  come,  that  you  had  worked  some  hand- 
kerchiefs for  your  Uncle's  birthday. 

Rebecca  [looks  at  him].  Why  must  you  be  a 
fool! 

Isaac.  Fool?  Vy,  he  want  to  know,  and  I  am 
proud  of  you,  so  proud,  Rebecca. 

Rebecca.  Silly.  I  would  ask  everything  and  tell 
nothing.  You  chatter,  chatter,  chatter,  so  that 
everybody  knows  your  business.  That's  why  I  say 
you're  foolish.     I'd  tell  nothing. 

Isaac.  But,  Rebecca  !  why  are  you  angry  mit  me? 
I  can  only  do  my  best.  [Her  face  is  resigned  and  a 
little  weary.']     I  do  all  I  can  for  you.    I  do  my  best. 

Rebecca  [looks  at  him  and  sums  it  all  up  dispas- 
sionately].   Why  don't  you  go  away  and  leave  me? 

Isaac.  I'm  sorry  I  did  not.  I  thought  I  vould 
be  a  help  to  you. 

Rebecca.  Help!  You  can't  help  me;  you  can't 
even  help  yourself.  You  are  what  they  call  unlucky. 
[She  shrugs  her  shoulders.] 

Isaac  [drops  his  head].  Dat's  vot  Rachel  used 
to  say,  I  vos  unlucky,  and  perhaps  I  vos.  But  it's 
166 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

being  too  honest  that  has  kept  me  down.  To  be 
honest  and  truthful  one  should  be  rich — I'm  too 
good;  the  poor  have  no  right  to  be  honest.  ... 


A  Month  Later 

[Rebecca  comes  into  the  room  dressed  for  going 
out.    Isaac  looks  at  her.] 

Isaac.  Vere  did  you  get  dat  dress?  How  grown 
up  you  look!  Oh,  I  like  you  in  dat  long  dress  bestl 
It  makes  you  look  taller,  and  you've  done  your  hair 
up,  too.    Vere  are  you  going?     Oh,  you  are  pretty. 

Rebecca  [looks  at  him  quietly].  I  am  going  for 
a  walk.  I  shall  perhaps  be  out  to  dinner.  Julia 
Hoppe  may  give  me  dinner. 

Isaac.  Oh,  you're  going  mit  Julia?  Well,  she 
is  nice,  but  a  little  fast,  my  tear,  isn't  she?  You  vill 
be  careful? 

Rebecca.  It's  better  to  be  a  little  fast  than  slow 
these  times.  [Drawing  on  a  long  glove  as  she 
speaks.] 

Isaac.  Vot  splendid  gloves !  You  must  have  paid 
six  or  seven  shilling  for  dem  gloves?  Vere  are  you 
going? 

Rebecca   [sharply].     Ask  me  no  questions,   I'll 

167 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

tell  you  no  lies.  I'm  going  to  Julia  Hoppe's  if  you 
must  know. 

Isaac.  May  I  come?  I  don't  like  you  valking 
about  de  streets  alone. 

Rebecca.  You  may  come  if  you  want  to.  But 
you  had  much  better  go  out  with  the  tray.  It's 
stopped  raining  now,  and  this  dress  is  not  paid  for 
yet. 

Isaac.    But  vould  you  like  me  to  come? 

Rebecca.  I  don't  care,  I  think  you  had  better 
make  your  round.  I'm  all  right.  Nothing'll  hap- 
pen to  me.  Nothing  ever  does  happen  in  this  dull 
hole.  Now  don't  worry:  I'll  be  back  soon.  No- 
body'll  run  away  with  me.  [She  goes  out  of  the 
door.~]     Worse  luck! 

•  •  •  •  •  o  • 

[Mr.  Levison  seated  in  his  room,  Rebecca  enters 
quickly. .] 

Mr.  Levison.  How  did  you  get  in?  Who  let 
you  in?    Where's  Lewis? 

Rebecca  [with  color  in  cheeks'].  Three  questions 
in  one  breath :  I  walked  in,  simply.  No,  no !  [Com- 
ing close  to  him.]  I'll  tell  the  truth.  I  waited  till 
Lewis  went  to  the  lift  with  the  gentleman  who  just 
came  out,  and  then  I  slipped  in.  Are  you  glad  to 
see  me? 

168 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Mr.  Levison  [rises].  I  don't  know.  I'm  glad, 
yes.  Who  could  help  being  glad?  But  I'm  afraid 
it's  not  wise.    Where's  your  father? 

Rebecca.  I  left  him  at  home.  [Taking  a  seat.~\ 
Did  you  wish  to  see  him? 

Mr.  Levison  [dryly].     Not  exactly. 

Rebecca.  You  don't  like  him,  but  you're  wrong. 
He's  a  good  sort — too  good,  that's  the  worst  of  him. 

Mr.  Levison  [doubtfully].  Is  he?  I  dare  say. 
But  he's  poor,  and — and  he  always  talks  morality. 

Rebecca.     Talks  morality? 

Mr.  Levison.  Yes,  he  says  he's  poor  because 
he's  honest  and  tells  the  truth,  and  all  that.  That 
moral  talk's  frightening:  in  business  it  always  means 
an  extravagantly  high  price.  No  one  talks  morality 
who  does  not  mean  to  get  six  times  as  much  as  the 
thing's  worth;  at  any  rate  that's  my  experience. 

Rebecca  [laughing  heartily].  How  funny  you 
are  and  how  interesting!  Every  word  that's  said 
then  you  think  has  something  to  do  with  the  money 
people  want  to  get  from  you? 

Mr.  Levison.    Of  course. 

Rebecca.  Poor  Daddy!  You  don't  understand 
him.  There's  no  purpose  in  what  he  says.  He's 
really  very  good  and  kind. 

Mr.  Levison.     He  brought  you  here,  didn't  he? 

169 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Rebecca.  No.  [Hesitates,  then  boldly.]  I 
wanted  to  come.     I  came  alone. 

Mr.  Levison.  Really?  And  he's  not  waiting 
outside  for  you?    Not  at  the  corner? 

Rebecca.  Of  course  he's  not  waiting,  he  doesn't 
even  know  I've  come. 

Mr.  Levison  [rising,  but  still  hesitating'].  And 
you  really  are  nearly  seventeen,  not  fifteen? 

Rebecca  [getting  up  gravely,  and  turning  round 
so  that  he  can  see  her  long  dress].  Now  do  I  look 
fifteen?  I  was  born  in  '87,  I'm  a  Jubilee  girl.  [Sit- 
ting down  again.]  You  must  believe  me.  Why  my 
second  name's  "Jubilee." 

Mr.  Levison.  Is  it?  H'm !  Write  it  down  there, 
will  you?  H'm.  Your  father'll  be  expecting  you 
home  soon — to  dinner? 

Rebecca.  No,  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  dine 
with  a  girl  friend,  Miss  Hoppe.  There  now: 
[laughing].     Does  that  please  you? 

Mr.  Levison.  That's  right.  Always  tell  me 
everything  and  we'll  get  along  like  a  house  on  fire. 
[Goes  over  to  her.]  So  you  wanted  to  see  me,  eh? 
little  girl?  [She  looks  up  at  him.]  Would  you 
come  out  to  lunch  with  me,  Rebecca? 

Rebecca  [formally].     I  should  be  very  pleased. 

Mr.  Levison  [flushing  slightly].  You  look  much 
170 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

better  in  that  dress,  taller:    Won't  you  stand  up  and 
let  me  see? 

[Rebecca  stands  up.] 

Mr.  Levison  [embarrassed].  You  are  pretty! 
[Puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  draws  her  to 
him.]  If  you  were  not  so  young,  I'd  ask  you  for  a 
kiss.  [Slides  hrs  arm  down  to  her  waist.]  Would 
you  give  me  one,  Rebecca? 

[Rebecca  slowly  lifts  her  eyes  to  his.    Mr.  Levison 
kisses  her  on  the  lips,  he  feels  her  yield  herself.] 

Mr.  Levison  [noisily,  to  get  rid  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  act].  There,  now  we  are  friends,  eh? 
Oh,  you  are  lovely,  lovely.  [Moves  away  a  step.] 
What  lips  you  have!  we'll  be  great  friends,  won't 
we?  [Rebecca  nods  and  looks  up  in  his  face.]  Will 
you  do  something  for  me? 

Rebecca  [gravely,  like  a  child].    Yes,  I  will. 

Mr.  Levison.  I  want  you  to  go  out  first,  or  my 
clerks'll  talk  and  I  don't  want  'em  to  talk  about  you. 
I  like  you  too  much  for  that.  You  go  out  and  wait 
for  me  at  the  next  corner,  the  corner  of  the  street 
leading  to  the  bank,  you  know  the  corner  ?  [Rebecca 
nods  quickly.]  I'll  come  in  five  minutes  or  so,  do 
you  mind  waiting?  [Rebecca  shakes  her  head  "no" 
and  smiles.]    You  don't  mind.    You're  a  brave  girl. 

171 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

[She  turns  to  go.  Levison  puts  his  arms  round  her 
from  behind.]  But  first  I  want  a  long  kiss,  a  real 
kiss.  [Rebecca  turns  her  head  round  and  their  lips 
meet.  A  long  pause  during  which  he  kisses  and 
caresses  her.~\  Now,  run  along,  Rebecca,  run  along, 
my  dear,  I'll  not  be  five  minutes.  [She  goes  out, 
while  he  stands  rooted  in  the  middle  of  the  room.] 
She  is  a  miracle,  that  girl,  a  blooming  miracle !  Sev- 
enteen, and  kiss  like  that.  She's  everything — clever, 
bright,  quiet — and  beautiful.  [As  if  defending  him- 
self he  speaks  aloud.]  A  lovely  girl,  any  man  might 
be  proud  of  her — lovely  and  clever.  What  lips, 
what  eyes!  [Going  to  his  desk.]  If  I'm  the  first 
she'll  not  repent  it.  She  really  cares  for  me,  I  do 
believe.  How  her  lips  trembled  and  clung!  My 
God,  I'm  hot.  But  does  she  care  for  me?  Or  is  it 
just  my  money?  Well,  what  matter.  Her  kisses  are 
just  as  sweet — perhaps  sweeter.  .  .  .  She's  well 
dressed,  her  father  must  make  something.  She'll 
deal  with  him.  She  told  the  truth.  I  need  not 
trouble.  It'll  be  all  right.  She  cares  for  me  a  little 
perhaps.  I  must  hurry.  If  she  waits  there  long 
some  fool  of  a  clerk'll  speak  to  her:  D — n  them! 
[Pulls  his  desk  to,  and  looks  for  his  hat.]  How 
lovely  she  is,  what  lips,  what  a  figure.  [Stands  be- 
fore the  door.]  My  heart's  thumping,  lips  dry.  I 
172 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

didn't  believe  I  could  feel  like  this.  I'm  more  ex- 
cited than  I  ever  was  in  the  biggest  deal.  By  God, 
this  is  living.     [Goes  out  hastily.'] 

A  Year  Later 

[Isaac  is  in  bed.  Mrs.  Goldschmidt  comes  into  the 
room.] 

Mrs.  Goldschmidt.    A  gentleman  to  see  you,  Sir. 

Isaac.  To  see  me,  a  gentleman;  I'm  in  bed.  I'm 
not  veil.    Vot  gentleman,  vot's  his  name? 

Mr.  Levison  [entering  the  room].  It's  only  me, 
Isaac.  Thought  I'd  come  and  see  you.  Heard  you 
had  a  cold.     Bad  enough  to  keep  you  in  bed,  is  it? 

Isaac.  Oh,  Mr.  Levison,  this  is  kind.  Yes,  it's 
pleurisy  I've  got.  I  vos  out  in  the  rain,  and  this 
doctor  shtuff,  he  no  good. 

Mr.  Levison  [looking  round].  Have  you  no  one 
to  wait  on  you  but  that  old  woman?  Where's  Re- 
becca? 

Isaac.  She  vent  out  and  has  not  come  back  yet. 
Young  tings  must  go  out. 

Mr.  Levison.    But  didn't  she  come  back  at  three? 

Isaac.  She  generally  comes  back  about  dree  but 
I  don't  know  to-day,  I  vos  sleeping. 

Mr.  Levison.    When  did  you  awake? 

173 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Isaac.  About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  Vot 
time  is  it  now? 

Mr.  Levison.  After  nine.  But  don't  you  know 
where  she  is?  You  must  know.  A  self-willed  young 
girl  like  that  ought  not  to  be  out  alone.  You  know 
where  she  is,  don't  you? 

Isaac.    Perhaps  I  do. 

Mr.  Levison.    Well,  where? 

Isaac.    Vy  should  I  tell  you? 

Mr.  Levison  [getting  angry].  Because  I  want 
to  know,  and  I  mean  good  to  her  and  no  one  else 
does. 

Isaac.    So  you  say. 

Mr.  Levison.  But  why  don't  you  help  me  when 
I  say  I  mean  good  to  her? 

Isaac.  Vy  should  I  help  you,  Reuben  Levison? 
You  took  my  girl  from  me,  persuaded  her  to  go  out 
vid  you.  You  gave  her  dose  sable  furs,  which  she 
says  are  cheap  shtuff.  But  ven  I  vos  young  I  deal 
in  furs  at  Lemburg,  and  I  know.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Levison.  Well,  what's  that  to  you?  You 
brought  her  to  see  me,  didn't  you?  I  didn't  ask  you 
to.    You  brought  her  for  something? 

Isaac.    She  vanted  to  go:  she  vos  discontent:  vot 
could  I  do?     You  vos  old  and  I  thought  you  might 
help  her  like  a  fader:  she's  so  pretty. 
174 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Mr.  Levison.  Men  don't  feel  like  fathers  to 
pretty  girls;  at  any  rate,  I  don't.  And  now  she's 
got  me.  I  care  for  her  and  want  her.  If  she'll  only 
play  fair  with  me,  I'll  be  good  to  her.  She's  a  fool 
sometimes,  too  self-willed  for  anything.  She's  like 
a  man.  She  just  does  what  she  wants  to  do.  Now 
will  you  help  me  ? 

Isaac  [weakly].    Vot  can  I  do? 

Mr.  Levison.  Does  she  go  out  with  any  one  else, 
tell  me?  How  did  you  guess  the  furs  came  from 
me?    You  know  a  lot,  I  expect. 

Isaac.     Perhaps  I  do,  perhaps  I  don't. 

Mr.  Levison.  Surely  you  want  to  help  your 
daughter  to  get  on,  don't  you? 

Isaac.  How  do  I  know  dot  I  am  helping  her? 
She  told  me  often  and  often  not  to  interfere. 

Mr.  Levison.  But  you  must  interfere,  man.  You 
must  get  her  to  be  true  to  me.  I'll  give  her  more 
than  anybody  else. 

Isaac.    So  you  say. 

Mr.  Levison.  If  you'll  help  me  all  you  can,  I'll 
help  you,  give  you  an  allowance,  make  it  easy  for 
you. 

Isaac.  Vot  can  you  do  more  dan  de  doctors,  and 
dey  can't  do  noting.  My  head  he  ache  and  you  can- 
not take  it  away.    I  get  weaker  every  day,  you  can't 

175 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

make  me  stronger.  I  vish  I  could  leave  Rebecca 
some  money;  but  I  can't.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Levison  [shrugs  shoulders].  But,  Isaac,  tell 
me.  Rebecca  was  to  have  dined  with  me  to-night. 
She  did  not  come.  I  waited  nearly  an  hour,  and 
then  I  motored  here.  Where  has  she  been  in  the 
meantime?    Did  she  come  here  to-day  at  three? 

Isaac.  [The  old  man  tosses  his  head  wearily  as 
if  fatigued.']     I  don't  know:    I  vos  sleeping. 

Mr.  Levison.  May  I  go  into  her  room  and  look? 
It  is  in  there?    Isn't  it?     [Pointing  to  a  door.] 

Isaac  [lifting  himself  in  bed].  You  must  not, 
you  must  not.    She  vould  leave  me  altogether  den. 

Mr.  Levison  [looks  at  him  angrily  and  shrugs  his 
shoulders].    Damnation! 

Isaac  [awakened  again].  Vot  did  you  give  her 
besides  furs? 

Mr.  Levison.  Oh,  I  don't  know,  dresses,  what- 
ever she  wanted. 

Isaac  [nods  his  head].  Did  you  give  her  jewelry 
— a  golt  bracelet? 

Mr.  Levison.    No,  has  she  one? 

Isaac.     Who  gave  her  de  bracelet?     My  little 

girl ! 

Mr.  Levison.     A  bracelet  1      [He  stands  still.] 
176 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Come,  Isaac,  you  know  more  than  you  say.     Tell 
me,  who  gave  it  her? 

Isaac.  I  know  nozing.  I  don't  know  if  she  have 
bracelet.     Rebecca's  all  right.     Vy  you  bozzer  me? 

Mr.  Levison.  My  God,  my  God!  Taking  a 
sudden  resolution,  sits  down  by  the  bed.]  Look 
here,  Isaac.  I'll  marry  her;  I  will,  by  God!  I  can't 
live  without  her.  I'll  marry  her  at  once.  Don't  you 
say  anything  about  what  you  have  said  to  me.  But 
when  she  comes  home,  forbid  her  to  go  out  again  in 
the  evening.  Be  firm.  Say  it  is  not  kind  to  you. 
She's  got  a  great  affection  for  you.  Say  it's  wrong 
to  leave  you  alone,  and  I'll  marry  her,  by  God,  I 
will.  I  always  intended  to  since  I  knew  I  was  the 
first,  now  my  mind's  made  up. 

Isaac.    Rebecca's  mind,  perhaps  he's  not  made  up. 

Mr.  Levison.  What  do  you  mean,  Isaac?  You 
don't  think  she'll  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  and  marry 
some  one  else,  do  you?  You  don't  mean  to  say  it's 
gone  as  far  as  that?  Oh,  my  God,  my  God!  Who 
is  it?    Tell  me?    Do! 

Isaac.     I  know  nozing.     I've  alvays  told  de  trut. 

Mr.  Levison.  All  rot,  that  talk.  You're  damn 
cunning.  You  know  a  great  deal  more  than  you  say. 
Why  do  you  think  she  won't  marry  me? 

Isaac.     I  know  nozing.     I  tink  if  I  vere  a  man 

177 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

tree  times  her  age,  like  you,  I'd  marry  her  quick. 
All  girls  like  marriage.  You'll  put  it  off  and  off. 
She  say  nozing,  but  she's  very  proud. 

Mr.  Levison.  My  God,  I  believe  you're  right, 
I've  been  a  fool.  She's  everything  I  want,  pretty, 
clever,  and  knows  more  than  anybody'd  guess.  Will 
you  fix  it  up,  Isaac?    Say  you  want  her  to  marry  me. 

Isaac.  No,  you  must  do  that.  Why  not  vait  for 
her,  and  say  it  yourself,  or  come  in  de  morning? 

Mr,  Levison.  Which  would  be  the  better  day? 
One  hardly  knows  what  to  do  with  her.  She  might 
be  angry  if  I  waited,  and  yet  I  hate  to  go  away. 
What  do  you  think,  Isaac?  Should  I  wait  now,  or 
should  I  come  in  the  morning? 

Isaac.  I  tink  to-morrow,  to-morrow  is  anozer 
day. 

Mr.  Levison.  Well,  I'll  go  now  and  come  back 
to-morrow,  but  put  in  a  good  word  for  me,  Isaac, 
you'll  see  I  can  be  grateful — later!     [Goes.} 

[About  midnight.  Rebecca,  in  Russian  Sables,  comes 
into  her  father's  room.    I.  c.~\ 

Rebecca.  You  awake,  father?  Mrs.  Gold- 
schmidt's  asleep.  I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  see  how 
you  are. 

178 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

Isaac.  I'm  awake,  tear,  I  am  awake,  but  vere 
have  you  been? 

Rebecca.    I  have  been  to  the  theater. 

Isaac.    Really? 

Rebecca.  Really.  Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you  the 
truth?    It's  too  much  trouble  to  tell  lies. 

Isaac.  Why  didn't  you  go  with  Mr.  Levison  to 
dinner? 

Rebecca  [quickly'].    Has  he  been  here? 

Isaac.    Yes,  my  tear. 

Rebecca.    Well,  what  did  he  say? 

Isaac.  Oh,  he  say  a  lot  of  tings.  He  vant  to 
know  vere  you  vent.  I  told  him  I  did  not  know. 
He  asked  me  vedder  you  vere  mit  anybody  else?  I 
told  him  I  not  know. 

Rebecca.  That  was  right.  I'll  make  Mr.  Levi- 
son pay  for  prying. 

Isaac.  Oh,  I  vould  not,  Rebecca,  I  vould  not. 
He's  a  rich  man,  and  means  good  to  you.  He  vants 
to  marry  you. 

Rebecca.    To  marry  me!    He  didn't  say  so? 

Isaac.  He  vill  propose.  Oh,  he's  mad  after  you, 
mad.  He  vill  propose,  he  say  so.  He  vanted  to 
vait  for  you  to-night 

Rebecca  [Iter  eyes  narrowing'].  Because  I  did 
not  meet  him  once  or  twice.     He  always  wants  to 

179 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

talk  about  himself  and  I  want  to  go  to  the  theaters 
and  the  opera.  Oh,  the  opera !  [And  she  claps  her 
hands.]  What  else  did  he  say  to  you,  father?  Tell 
me  everything. 

Isaac.    Oh,  he  said  he  gave  you  the  furs. 

Rebecca.  But  how  did  he  come  to  say  he'd  marry 
me?  What  made  him  say  that?  He  has  never  said 
it  to  me. 

Isaac  [wearily].  I  don't  know.  I  asked  him 
did  he  give  you  ze  golt  bracelet.  He  say  "no,"  and 
ask  me  who  give  it  you?    I  say  I  don't  know. 

Rebecca.  The  bracelet?  But  no  one  has  given 
me  any  bracelet.  Why  should  any  one  give  me  a 
bracelet? 

Isaac,  \_He  shrinks.]  Don't  be  angry  mit  me, 
Rebecca,  but  I  saw  you  mit  a  bracelet  vonce  and  I 
thought  perhaps  he  had  given  you  the  bracelet. 

Rebecca  [laughing'].  You  amuse  me.  Don't  you 
recognize  your  own  things,  you  silly  Dadda?  I  got 
a  chain  from  your  tray,  from  underneath,  and 
plaited  it  round  four  times  into  a  bracelet. 

Isaac  [sitting  up  in  bed,  excited].  Dat's  vot  made 
him  mad :    Dat's  vy  he  vant  to  marry  you :  dat's  vy. 

Rebecca  [nods  head].  Oh,  you  clever,  clever 
Dad!  You  made  him  jealous.  You  clever  Dad, 
180 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 

who  would  have  thought  you'd  bring  him  up  to  the 
scratch? 

Isaac.  I  did  it  not  on  purpose.  It  vos  jest 
chance,  or  perhaps  Gott,  Rebecca,  ze  Gott  of  our 
f  aders ! 

Rebecca.  Anyway,  it's  a  bit  of  all  right.  [Laughs 
triumphantly.']  I've  always  heard  that  God  helps 
those  who  help  themselves. 


181 


A  French  Artist 


A  French  Artist 

ONE  night.after  dining  with  Henri  Dartier,  the 
critic  and  writer  who  has  done  so  much  to 
make  modern  English  literature  comprehensible  to 
Frenchmen,  we  went  into  Pousset's  brasserie,  where 
from  time  to  time  one  can  meet  most  of  the  leaders 
of  French  thought. 

Presently  a  pair  came  into  the  room  who  drew 
all  eyes.  The  man  was  like  a  high  priest,  with 
black  hair  and  long,  silky  black  beard,  regular  fea- 
tures and  pallid  skin.  As  he  came  nearer  the  im- 
pression deepened;  he  was  a  very  handsome  man 
of  about  thirty-five,  the  great,  dark  eyes  were  su- 
perb and  there  was  a  pontifical  majesty  in  the  portly 
dignified  figure.  He  dressed  the  part,  too;  he  wore 
no  collar,  or  rather  the  collar  was  a  band  of  black 
moire  silk  which  seemed  to  form  part  of  his  waist- 
coat— not  a  spot  of  color  about  him — a  study  in 
black  and  white,  for  the  black  clothes  set  off  the 
pallor  of  his  skin.  Beside  him  a  tiny  girl's  figure, 
her  head  reaching  hardly  to  his  chin,  her  pale,  gold 

185 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

hair  was  banded  round  her  ears,  framing  her  face, 
sharpening  the  thin  oval  of  it,  and  accentuating  the 
rather  peaked,  prominent  nose,  the  red  mouth,  and 
small,  bony  chin.  Her  eyes  held  one — large,  gray- 
blue  eyes,  enigmatic — emptied  of  expression.  She 
might  have  stepped  out  of  a  canvas  of  Botticelli — 
an  immature  virgin,  full  of  character  by  some  primi- 
tive master.  The  contrast  between  the  two  was  so 
astounding — the  individualities  of  both  so  marked 
and  so  uncommon,  that  I  turned  eagerly  to  Dartier, 
who  knows  every  one,  to  learn  about  them. 

"Yes,  I  know  them,"  he  replied  to  my  question; 
"he  is  from  Provence,  an  artist,  Piranello:  the  girl's 
his  wife." 

"His  wife,"  I  cried,  "she  might  be  his  daughter." 

Dartier  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'She  is  older  than  you  think." 
'I  should  like  to  know  them,"  I  remarked. 

"Nothing  easier,"  was  his  reply,  and  he  got  up 
and  called  out,  "Piranello,  mon  ami!" 

A  nearer  acquaintance  only  sharpened  my  curi- 
osity. Piranello  was  to  me  a  new  type;  there  was 
something  of  the  pontiff  not  only  in  his  looks,  but  in 
his  nature;  in  his  unaffected  seriousness,  in  the  slow 
gestures  of  his  long,  white  fingers;  something  hier- 
atic in  his  dignity  and  repose,  a  consciousness  of 
186 


«*< 


A  French  Artist 

individual  worth,  that  would  have  been  pomposity  in 
any  one  less  simple  and  sincere. 

And  his  wife,  Claire,  was  just  as  singular  a  per- 
sonality. She  talked  very  little;  was  very  quiet;  her 
extraordinary  self-repression  was  in  itself  a  distinc- 
tion, yet  each  of  her  words  counted,  and  if  a  good 
thing  was  said,  or  anything  to  excite  her,  any  cry  of 
passion  or  of  revolt,  the  thin  nostrils  would  vibrate, 
the  eyes  darken,  and  the  whole  face  sharpen  to  in- 
tensity. .  .  . 

Piranello  was  very  courteous.  In  answer  to  the 
questions  of  Dartier,  he  said  he  had  done  no  paint- 
ing lately,  but  was  interested  in  enamels  and  mosaics. 

"The  beginnings  of  half  a  dozen  arts,"  he  re- 
marked, "or  the  culminating  points,  whichever  you 
like.  I  have  been  busy,  too,  with  some  new  jewelry," 
and  his  long,  white  fingers  waved  toward  an  orna- 
ment on  the  blue  of  his  wife's  dress.  It  was  an 
imitation  of  an  open  oyster-shell,  with  a  great  pink 
pearl  in  the  cup  and  a  tiny  black  one  at  the  side. 
Madame  Piranello  detached  it  from  her  dress  with- 
out a  word,  and  handed  it  to  me.  I  could  not  help 
exclaiming  with  admiration;  it  was  an  astonishing 
copy  in  some  metal  or  other  and  curiously  enam- 
eled; the  outside  as  rough  as  any  oyster-shell,  while 
the  inside  had  a  milky  radiance,  shot  through  with 

187 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

faint  colors,  like  the  most  lovely  mother-of-pearl, 
a  perfect  setting  for  the  great  gem.  It  would  have 
been  hard  to  find  a  more  effective  or  extraordinary 
piece  of  jewelry. 

"Jewelry  should  be  barbaric,"  Piranello  said,  "the 
gem  is  the  subject;  the  artist  must  set  it  to  show  off 
its  beauty,  its  strangeness,  its  individuality.  It  is 
what  an  incident  of  real  life  is  to  the  story-teller; 
he  should  only  use  it  if  it  suits  him,  if  he  can  make 
it  significant — beautiful  or  terrible.  Two  or  three 
diamonds  side  by  side  in  a  ring;  a  whole  row  of 
pearls  cheek  by  jowl  in  a  necklace,  are  merely  sym- 
bols of  vanity  and  wealth — evidence  of  vulgar  bad 
taste.  The  pearls  are  selected  because  of  their  like- 
ness one  to  another;  whereas  the  charm  of  pearls, 
as  of  everything  else,  is  in  their  unlikeness  to  each 
other.  That  is  why  I  put  my  tiny  black  pearl  there, 
to  set  off  the  exquisite  pink  glow  of  the  master- 
gem  .  .  ." 

The  man  interested  me,  and  the  woman  had  a 
certain  attraction;  I  was  glad  when,  in  answer  to  a 
request  by  Dartier,  Piranello  invited  me  to  visit  his 
studio. 

"I  have  got  my  forge,"  he  said,  "just  off  the  Rue 
Ramey,  away  up  beyond  the  Butte  de  Montmartre, 
where  one  is  hidden  from  the  hive,  and  Claire  has 
.188 


A  French  Artist 

made  an  interesting  room  or  two,  which  you  may 
care  to  see  .  .  ." 

When  we  parted  for  the  night  I  asked  Dartier 
about  him. 

"You  will  see  for  yourself,"  he  said.  "Piranello 
has  a  real  talent.  He  made  a  name  ten  years  ago 
in  Paris  by  painting  girls  like  the  Primitives,  and 
old  men  like  Balzac.  Perhaps  because  his  pictures 
affected  us  a  good  deal  we  used  to  call  them  the 
wicked  virgins  and  wise  saints:  we  Parisians  always 
mock  our  emotions.  You  will  see  for  yourself  next 
Wednesday." 

On  Wednesday  I  drove  up  to  the  Butte,  and  then 
got  down  and  walked  nearly  to  the  fortifications 
along  the  slope  of  the  hill  turned  away  from  Paris. 
There  in  a  waste  place  I  found  the  artist's  house 
and  studio.  The  house  was  the  ordinary  French 
suburban  box,  and  from  the  outside  seemed  abso- 
lutely commonplace.  But  the  door  opened  into 
a  great  vaulted  room,  like  the  refectory  of  some  old 
convent.  A  staircase  at  the  far  end  led  to  the  upper 
part  of  the  house.  Beyond  it  I  was  told  was  the 
tiny  kitchen.  Between  the  arches  of  the  vaulted 
room  were  paintings  of  primitives  done  on  panels, 
and  here  and  there  primitive  statues  of  saints  in 
stone   and   marble.      The   furniture   was   all   early 

189 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

renaissance;  the  whole  room  of  the  time  of  Henry  II. 

The  little  lady  who  came  to  meet  me  belonged 
to  the  same  period.  Claire  seemed  a  little  angular, 
a  little  stiff,  just  as  the  Gothic  saints  seemed  a  little 
stiff,  because  of  the  pointed  folds  of  their  drapery. 

Piranello,  she  said,  was  in  his  studio.  Would  we 
care  to  look  at  the  room  first;  we  did  care.  It  was 
a  feast  to  the  eye.  Not  many  things  in  it,  but  every- 
thing chosen  with  unerring  knowledge  and  taste. 
Here  was  a  St.  Rocque,  standing  with  compassionate 
hands  outspread  over  a  lady  who  was  ministering  to 
his  wound — an  atmosphere  of  human  pity  and  suf- 
fering about  the  group  which  gripped  the  heart. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  white  vault  a  St.  Louis  in 
the  same  hard,  gray  stone  with  the  cross  on  his 
breast  and  the  fleur-de-lis  of  France  on  his  raiment, 
the  two  fingers  of  the  right  hand  uplifted  in  a  gesture 
of  admonition.  Next  to  him  a  triptych  of  some 
early  Florentine  painter,  noteworthy  for  the  suave 
beauty  of  the  faces,  and  for  a  page  whose  right  hand 
was  toying  with  a  jeweled  dagger  while  he  waited  on 
the  Virgin. 

Over  the  door  by  which  I  had  entered  was  a  win- 
dow of  renaissance  glass,  which  threw  gules  of  crim- 
son and  primrose  on  the  narrow  oaken  table.  On 
the  table  itself  a  vase  of  alabaster  with  one  yellow 
190 


A  French  Artist 

rose  in  it.  The  simplicity  and  unity  of  effect  made  a 
singular  appeal. 

The  little  lady  led  me  out  by  a  side  door  under 
the  stairs,  and  we  found  ourselves  at  once  in  the 
studio,  where  Piranello  was  at  work.  The  studio 
was  evidently  built  on  for  the  sake  of  the  light  from 
above,  which  could  be  shaded  at  will  with  heavy, 
dark  curtains.  It  was  paved  like  the  room  we  had 
just  left  with  great  slabs  of  stone,  and  at  one  end 
stood  a  huge  forge,  with  immense  bellows,  which  a 
little  boy  was  working.  Piranello  came  to  meet  us 
in  an  old  blue  blouse,  all  stained  with  blotches  of 
paint  and  ochred  by  many  scorchings.  He  had  been 
working  at  a  crucifix.  The  conception  was  ingenious. 
An  enormous  cliff-like  hill  of  some  rough  metal  rep- 
resented the  calvary,  with  forests,  lakes,  and  foot- 
paths of  a  dozen  colors,  and  toiling  up  the  hill  little 
figures  of  men  and  women  of  every  race  and  every 
variety  of  costume.  On  the  top  the  wooden  cross 
all  empty,  with  gouts  and  clots  of  blood  on  the  nails 
and  arms,  and  at  the  foot  a  woman  prostrate — sor- 
row in  every  line  of  the  broken  figure. 

"I  never  care  to  attempt  the  figure  of  the  'Cruci- 
fied One,'  "  said  Piranello  quietly,  "it  is  the  cross 
itself  which  is  of  such  significance — the  instrument  of 

191 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

torture  and  death,  turned  into  a  symbol  of  faith  and 

hope." 

******* 

It  is  curious  when  you  come  to  know  some  one 
who  is  a  personage  how  astonished  you  are  after- 
ward by  the  amount  of  talk  that  goes  on  about  him. 
I  had  never  heard  of  Piranello  or  his  wife  before, 
but  after  visiting  them  I  seemed  to  hear  of  them  on 
all  sides.  Some  people  declared  that  it  was  his 
wife  and  her  strange  beauty  which  had  given  him  all 
his  talent.  But  when  you  talked  of  the  heads  of  his 
old  men,  modeled  with  extraordinary  realism  and 
understanding — heads  weird  and  tortured  and  in- 
spired— the  critics  shrugged  their  shoulders  and 
thrust  forth  their  lips  contemptuously.  Their  malev- 
olence did  not  weaken  the  impression  made  upon  me 
by  the  artist  and  his  wife. 

In  time  I  got  to  know  Piranello  rather  well.  The 
question  of  his  wife's  importance  to  his  art  inter- 
ested me  excessively.  One  day  he  showed  me  a  won- 
derful picture  done  some  years  before  of  "Susanna 
and  the  Elders,"  in  which  his  wife's  girlish  beauty 
was  exposed  with  extraordinary  realism  and  emo- 
tion, while  lust  itself  was  incarnate  in  the  vicious 
masks  of  the  peeping  old  men. 

"You  have  been  extraordinarily  fortunate  in  your 
192 


A  French  Artist 

wife  as  a  model,"  I  exclaimed,  "an  ideal  figure,  is 
she  not?"  for  indeed  the  unveiled  charm  of  her 
adolescence  redeemed  the  whole  scene. 

Unconscious  of  what  was  passing  through  my 
mind,  Piranello  remarked  casually: 

"A  good  model:  art  begins  in  imitation,  but  it 
must  become  interpretation  before  it's  worth  much." 

"Her  figure  is  not  only  lovely,"  I  went  on,  "but 
just  what  you  wanted  here  to  lift  the  portraits  of 
those  ignoble  old  beasts  to  the  plane  of  great  art — 
a  wonderful  model!  How  lucky  you  were  to  find 
her." 

I  had  roused  him  at  last. 

"Not  lucky,"  he  said;  "luck  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  We  artists  have  always  our  models  in  our 
heads.  I'll  explain  if  you  like.  Quite  early  I  was 
taken  by  the  primitive  masters;  I  suppose  their  sin- 
cerity, naivete  and  frankness  appealed  to  me — the 
more  complicated  we  are,  the  more  simplicity  moves 
us.  Then  I  went  to  northern  Italy,  and  studied  the 
beginnings  of  painting,  as  I  might  have  gone  to 
Flanders,  or  indeed  to  Russia.  Do  you  know  that 
the  Russian  school  of  painting  dates  from  the  early 
part  of  the  fifteenth  century?  I  could  show  you  a 
picture  of  a  Russian  primitive  which  you  would  mis- 
take for  an  Italian.    I  went  to  Orvieto  and  Ravenna 

193 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  spent  three  weeks  there:  I  learned  a  great  deal 
from  Signorelli ;  the  astounding  vigor,  directness 
and  force  in  him  and  in  other  early  masters  affected 
me  with  pleasure  as  poignant  as  pain.   .  .  . 

"Gradually  I  began  to  find  myself.  The  passion 
in  me  gave  me  an  ideal  of  girlhood,  and  I  began  to 
see  what  I  wanted.  .  .  .  But  I  had  no  formula,  you 
understand,  no  symbol.  I  began  doing  girls'  por- 
traits ingenuously,  catching  a  glimpse  of  innocence 
here,  and  there — the  dawning  of  a  child's  soul.  Bit 
by  bit  the  surprising  richness  of  life  revealed  itself 
to  me,  and  I  began  seeking,  seeking,  and  as  soon 
as  I  began  to  seek  with  faith  I  began  to  find  on  this 
hand  and  on  that,  models  with  the  features  and  fig- 
ures I  wanted  for  this  or  that  effect.  Gradually 
my  own  desires  grew  definite  and  distinct  and  then 
I  met  my  wife.  .  .  .  Was  she  sent  to  me,  or  did  my 
desire  call  her  out  of  the  crowd?  She  affected  me 
like  a  piece  of  music  heard  in  some  previous  exist- 
ence, my  whole  soul  was  poured  out  like  water  at 
her  feet.  I  was  all  one  hunger  and  thirst  for  her, 
and  she  cared  for  me  as  well.  .  .  .  Of  course  her 
dress  was  all  wrong,  and  her  hair  stupid — modern; 
she  had  been  trying  to  make  her  face  pretty  like 
every  one's  face,  like  the  face  of  a  fashion  plate.  I 
showed  her  what  her  face  really  was,  the  distinction 
194 


A  French  Artist 

of  it,  and  what  her  figure  was  and  the  subtle,  superla- 
tive attraction  of  it.  .  .  .  She  seized  on  the  idea, 
womanlike,  and  as  soon  as  she  dressed  as  I  wished, 
and  saw  the  sensation  she  created  when  she  went 
abroad,  she  developed  the  idea  with  great  talent. 
She's  very  fine.  .  .  ." 

"That  explains  part  of  your  work,  but  it  does 
not  explain  the  other  side  of  your  talent — your 
men's  heads.  .  .   ." 

"The  interest  of  a  man's  face,"  he  said,  "is  all  of 
the  intellect,  spiritual,  while  the  woman's  is  all  of 
the  body;  the  ideal  of  the  one  is  passion  and  suffer- 
ing; the  ideal  of  the  other  grace  and  innocence.  I 
love  a  man's  head  when  it  is  worn  hard  by  intense 
feeling  and  furrowed  by  thought.  I  love  the  mask 
of  the  foul  bird  of  prey  with  the  fat  Jew  nose, 
greedy,  coarse  mouth,  and  obscene  vulture  neck.  I 
love  the  broad  face  of  the  lion,  with  the  square  jaw, 
low  forehead,  heavy  brows:  courage,  cruelty,  hate, 
stamped  all  over  it:  or  the  narrow  mask  of  avarice 
with  its  thin  lips  and  pointed  teeth :  the  smile  of  con- 
scious power  and  the  clawlike,  grasping  fingers.  Oh, 
I  come  across  superb  men's  heads  everywhere.  But 
strange  to  say,  it  is  life  which  supplies  me  with  all 
my  ideals  of  men:  the  models  themselves  suggest  the 
artistic  treatment,  indicate  the  heightening  touches, 

J95 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

whereas  with  the  girls'  faces  and  figures  the  idea  is 
always  within  me,  suggested  by  desire.  ...  I  don't 
know  which  is  the  more  effective  artistically:  prob- 
ably my  girls  are  truer,  deeper  than  my  men.  They 
have  less  of  life  in  them,  and  more  of  ideal  beauty: 
sometimes  I  think  it  is  the  ideal  that  endures,  and 
sometimes  life  and  the  sense  of  life,  but  I  don't 
know — no  one  knows.  .  .  . 

"I  am  still  seeking,  seeking,  but  I  have  got  out  on 
a  by-path,  I'm  afraid.  My  first  impulse  seems  to 
be  exhausted.  ...  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  added 
quickly.  "I  mean  that  it  is  accomplished  in  some 
sort.  I  think  of  going  to  Belgium  and  Holland.  I 
want  fecundating.  All  this  cursed  enamel  work  is 
not  my  true  work,  but  it  has  taught  me  new  combina- 
tions of  colors — new  iridescent  effects.  I  am  getting 
ripe  for  a  new  start.   .  .   ." 

I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  the  woman 
had  come  to  the  same  point.  Madame  Piranello 
was  more  secretive,  or  was  it  modest  reticence? 
Still,  now  and  then  she  let  drop  a  word  which  was 
significant. 

On  one  occasion,  I  remember,  I  asked  them  to 

lunch  at  a  Paris  restaurant.     The   fashion  of  the 

moment  had  given  women   a   sheath-like   dress  of 

great  simplicity.     The  fashion  could  easily  be  ap- 

196 


A  French  Artist 

proximated  to  the  style  of  the  Primitives,  and  Mad- 
ame Piranello  had  brought  about  the  combination 
dexterously.  Her  figure  could  not  help  but  be  slight, 
yet  there  was  a  suggestion  of  round  litheness  about 
it  which  was  very  seductive. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "that  we  are  late,  but 
the  Master  did-.not  like  my  dress :  it  does  not  fall  in 
pointed  Gothic  angles.  Artists,"  she  added,  with 
her  eyes  upon  mine,  "are  slow  to  admit  that  their 
ideals  may  develop  and  girls  become  women.  .   .   ." 

There  had  evidently  been  a  dispute  between  them 
on  the  subject,  for  Piranello  took  her  up  quickly. 

"That's  not  the  point,"  he  exclaimed,  "there's  an 
ideal  in  every  one,  and  your  ideal  is  not  of  the  wom- 
an-mother. You  confuse  all  one's  ideas  of  the  fit- 
ness of  dress,  and " 

"And  the  result  is  perfection,"  I  broke  in  hastily, 
to  clear  the  air:  but  though  Madame  Piranello  had 
remained  silent  she  had  not  changed  her  opinion. 
Her  eyes  had  grown  dark,  like  violets  in  water,  and 
the  little  nostrils  beat  quickly:  yet  she  was  wise 
enough  to  meet  rebuke  with  silence. 

*K  *|C  3jC  7fi  *|>  *f*  ^^ 

A  year  or  so  later  I  met  them  at  Fontainebleau, 
and  found  that  the  paths  had  diverged  a  great  deal 
further.    While  his  wife  prepared  afternoon  tea  we 

197 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

talked  in  the  garden.  He  was  now  full  of  Memling, 
and  the  Van  Eycks  and  Matsys : 

"You  have  no  idea  the  great  things  I  found,"  he 
cried;  "I  shall  go  back  to  Flanders  for  a  year.  They 
have  given  me  a  dozen  ideas.  I  am  working  at  a 
gaudy,  great  picture  now.  Adam  and  Eve  leaving 
the  garden — of  bourse  of  their  own  free  will,"  and 
he  laughed.  "Eve  is  sorrowing  at  the  loss  of  the 
accustomed,  and  fearful;  but  Adam  is  delighted  with 
the  sovereignty  of  the  larger  world — his  eyes  aglow 
with  the  vision  splendid." 

"Madame  Piranello  standing  for  Eve?"  I  guessed. 

"No,  no,"  he  replied,  with  a  little  temper,  "women 
seek  admiration  and  not  artistic  effects.  It's  a  great 
pity.  .  .  .  You  see,  Claire's  older  than  she  was,  and 
now  she  wants  to  show  her  tiny  waist  and  round 
figure,  and  she's  too  short  for  the  style,  too  short- 
legged.  It's  a  great  pity.  .  .  .  Still,  perhaps  it's 
for  the  best:  another  ideal  has  shaped  itself  in  me. 
She  must  be  tall,  and  very  slight.  There  must  be 
about  her  the  adorable  awkwardness  of  childhood: 
the  indecision  of  form  of  the  young  girl,"  and  he 
drew  the  outline  of  the  figure  wi£h  his  thumb  in  the 
air.  "Just  a  hint,  perhaps,  of  curve  in  the  hips,  but 
not  the  vase-like  roundness  of  womanhood — I  love 
the  subtle  hesitation  of  line,  every  indication  of 
198 


A  French  Artist 

youth,  youth  with  curiosity  in  the  eyes  and  eager- 
ness— the  possibility  but  not  the  suggestion  of  pas- 
sion. 

"Your  new  ideal  will  be  difficult  to  find,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"No,  no!"  he  exclaimed,  "one  of  these  days  I  am 
sure  to  come  across  it.  Life's  a  treasure-house,  a 
miraculous  treasure-house  which  holds  everything, 
a  thousand,  thousand  ideals.  Its  richness  is  incon- 
ceivable: while  the  idea  is  yet  vague  in  the  mind, 
nature  presents  you  with  its  realization.  I'll  meet 
my  ideal  one  of  these  days." 

"And  how  about  your  old  men?"  I  asked. 

"That  was  all  rather  crude,  don't  you  think?"  he 
replied  carelessly.  "A  mere  contrast  with  my  girl 
figures:  a  sort  of  rebound  of  passion.  I  no  longer 
feel  that  impulse.  I  don't  want  worn,  tired  heads 
of  old  men,  but  the  perfect  figure  of  the  mature 
man,  force  in  the  yoke-like  shoulders,  energy  in  the 
long,  flat  steel  bands  of  the  thigh-muscles,  and  the 
face  of  conquering  achievement.  I  have  a  perfect 
model  for  my  Adam,"  he  added,  "Adam  who  finds  a 
larger  freedom  in  disobedience  and  a  wider  kingdom 
in  revolt:  he  must  be  as  strong  as  Michel  Angelo's 
ideal,  but  not  so  tortured:  more  easeful,  graceful,  I 
think,  more  like  a  figure  of  Donatello.  .  .  ." 

199 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Next  spring  the  Adam  and  Eve  of  Piranello  made 
a  week's  sensation  in  Paris,  and  shortly  afterward 
the  gossips  were  all  agog:  he  had  left  his  wife  with- 
out rhyme  or  reason,  they  said,  and  was  going 
about  with  a  foreigner,  a  Danish  girl  of  extraordi- 
nary appearance. 

I  was  eager  to  see  her  and  to  know  what  would 
be  the  result  of  the  separation.  Madame  Piranello, 
I  was  informed,  was  living  very  quietly  in  a  little 
house  on  the  borders  of  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau. 
She  seemed  perfectly  happy,  Dartier  told  me. 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  worldly  wisdom  in  that 
little  thing,"  he  remarked;  "she  will  fall  on  her  feet. 

The  son  of  R ,  the  Minister  of  Justice,  is  mad 

about  her.  But  she  will  not  marry  him.  My  wife 
says  she  really  cares  for  Piranello  in  spite  of  his 
bad  treatment  of  her,  or  perhaps  because  of  it,"  the 
genial  cynic  added  with  a  smile.  "But  Piranello's 
in  a  bad  way,"  he  went  on,  "his  latest  ideal  is  a  cau- 
tion: you  must  see  her.  .  .  ." 

Sure  enough,  I  did  see  her  a  week  afterward  at 
a  reception  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  where  artists  and 
editors  came  together  and  a  few  society  people,  just 
to  reconcile  smartness  with  talent. 

She  came  into  the  room  a  little  before  Piranello: 
she  was  as  tall  as  he  was — with  a  crown  of  ashen- 
200 


A  French  Artist 

fair  hair,  parted  at  the  side  and  brought  into  a  big 
sweep  across  the  forehead  like  a  boy's,  and  knotted 
tightly  at  the  nape :  long,  green  eyes,  with  triangular 
face  and  pointed  chin.  Her  figure  seemed  to  be  all 
angles:  even  Piranello  could  scarcely  complain  of 
her  roundness.  She  talked  French  with  a  harsh, 
northern  accent  She  was  not  sympathetic  to  me: 
there  was  something  catlike  cruel  in  the  hard,  naked 
eyes,  something  of  the  snake  in  that  flat,  pointed 
face. 

Piranello  was  as  hieratic  as  ever:  but  not  so  self- 
poised  as  he  had  been.  He  watched  his  Dane,  too, 
as  he  had  never  watched  his  wife.  I  wondered 
vaguely  what  the  upshot  would  be.  He  asked  me 
to  come  to  a  private  view  of  some  of  his  pictures  in 
the  Rue  de  Seze.  I  went.  The  man's  art  was  dis- 
quieting. Here  and  there  a  new  symbolism  showed 
itself  and  certain  ghostly  effects  of  peculiar  intensity 
and  significance  had  come  into  his  work:  but  the 
color  scheme  was  gloomy  and  brutal.  The  joy  of 
living  had  disappeared  from  his  work — passion  it 
seemed  had  its  Nemesis  shadow. 

Still  his  art  was  interesting.  There  was  a  head  of 
Jupiter  thrown  out  over  clouds  as  fine  as  anything, 
and  modern — for  this  God  had  sightless,  blind  eyes. 
Near  by  was  a  girl-child's  figure,  very  slight  and 

201 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

tall  and  thin — too  thin,  and  yet  with  beauty  in  its 
awkwardness:  the  face  in  some  strange  way  sug- 
gested a  skull :  it  was  entitled  Une  fille  d'Eve  and 
had  an  immense  success  in  Paris.  There  was  some- 
thing macabre  about  it,  something  preternaturally 
sinister. 

Piranello  was  no  longer  as  frank  as  he  used  to 
be:  he  would  not  talk  about  himself  and  his  aims  as 
of  old,  perhaps  he  was  not  so  sure  of  himself.  I 
felt  the  solution  of  the  problem  would  be  with 
Madame  Piranello. 

Madame  Dartier  took  me  one  day  to  see  her  at 
Fontainebleau.  There  were  a  couple  of  men  in  the 
room — one  a  lame  man  with  a  powerful  head,  and 
a  look  on  his  face  of  suffering.  He  had  had  a  bad 
fall,  I  learned,  from  horseback — and  had  injured 
his  spine:  his  fife  was  measured  to  him  in  months 
by  the  doctors.  He  had  been  an  admirer  of  Mad- 
ame Piranello  for  years  and  was  comparatively  con- 
tent now,  because  he  could  see  her  without  con- 
straint and  had  induced  her  to  use  his  motor  car. 
The  other  visitor  was  a  young  man  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent type.     He  was  the  R of  whom  Dartier 

had  spoken:  with  his  brown  hair,  gray  eyes  and 
short,  sturdy  figure  he  looked  like  a  Norman.  His 
family  was  very  rich,  Madame  Dartier  told  me.  He 
202 


A  French  Artist 

had  studied  law  in  Paris,  and  had  published  a  vol- 
ume of  poems.  He  was  a  good  deal  younger  than 
Madame  Piranello,  and  evidently  very  much  in  love 
with  her.  Madame  Dartier  was  certain  that  Claire 
would  end  by  marrying  him. 

"It  would  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  her," 
she  said;  "she  really  deserves  some  happiness  after 
that  wild  life  with  Piranello." 

"Does  she  care  for  him?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course,"  replied  Madame  Dartier,  "she  is 
five  or  six  years  older  than  he  is,  and  his  devotion 
would  win  any  woman  in  time — especially  one  who 
knows  life  as  well  as  Claire  knows  it.  Piranello 
made  her  see  all  the  colors  of  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Why  don't  they  marry?"  I  asked.  "Surely 
Piranello  will  give  her  a  divorce." 

"Oh,  that's  all  arranged,"  said  Madame  Dartier. 
"One  good  thing  about  you  men  is  that  you  seldom 
play  dog-in-the-manger  as  women  love  to  do.  Claire 
will  be  free  in  a  month  or  two.  But  I'm  afraid 
she's  hesitating:  you  see  she  had  a  real  passion  for 
Piranello,  and  after  the  fire's  burnt  out,  we  women 
cover  up  the  ashes  and  keep  them  warm  for  a  long 
time.   .  .   ." 

As  the  afternoon  wore  away  we  all  went  for  a 
walk  in  the  great  forest,  the  finest  in  the  world,  I 

203 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

sometimes  think,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  to  talk 
quietly  to  Madame  Piranello. 

I  told  her  quite  frankly  that  I  had  seen  Piranello 
lately,  and  was  interested  in  his  work. 

"You  were  a  real  friend  of  his,  I  know,"  she  re- 
marked; warmly,  I  thought. 

"I  was,  indeed,"  I  said,  "and  am  still,  and  there- 
fore very  sorry  that  there  is  this  cloud  between  you : 
in  you  he  has  lost  his  best  friend." 

She  looked  at  me  frankly  and  her  eyes  were  pa- 
thetic : 

"He  does  not  think  so,"  she  began:  "but  perhaps 
you  are  right.  At  any  rate,  I'm  frightened  when  I 
think  of  him,  frightened  and  anxious.   .   .   . 

"He  has  a  lot  of  good  in  him" — like  all  women, 
she  would  try  to  justify  her  feelings  by  reason — 
"a  lot  of  good,  and  he  will  come  to  grief,  I'm  afraid. 
Artists  all  strain  after  peculiarities  and  the  quest  is 
dangerous :  the  preterhuman  is  not  always  the  super- 
human, oftener  indeed  it  is  the  inhuman,"  she  added. 
.  .  .  "That  woman  he  has  got  now  is  a  maniac,  a 
detraquee:  one  has  only  got  to  look  at  her  to  see  it, 
a  morphino-maniac  or  worse." 

"His  pictures  are  wonderful,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  "yes,  but  not  healthy 
any  more." 
204 


A  French  Artist 

Her  insight  astounded  me. 

"You  see,  he  no  longer  has  you  for  his  model," 
I  said;  "you  were  his  ideal." 

I  had  touched  the  right  note  at  last. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  think  women 
know  more  about  life  than  men.  He  and  I  were 
made  for  each  other  really,  only  he  does  not  see  it. 
It  is  a  pity — you  complicated  ones  always  miss  the 
obvious.  He  wanted  a  change,  at  least  his  body  did, 
and  mon  Dieu  he's  got  it.  She  has  a  temper  like  a 
fiend,  you  know,  and  she'll  wear  him  to  a  rag,  be- 
cause he's  a  real  artist,  is  Nello:  his  art  is  his  life, 
and  as  soon  as  his  art  deteriorates  he'll  go  to  the 
bad." 

"Why  don't  you  see  him,  and  tell  him  all  that?" 
I  asked.  "You  have  clearer  eyes  than  he  has,  and 
who  knows,  you  might  save  him  still."  I  was  draw- 
ing the  bow  at  a  venture. 

She  looked  at  me  questioningly :  a  half  smile  stole 
across  her  face:  yet  her  eyes  were  kind:  I  thought 
I  understood.   .  .  . 

Three  months  later  Madame  Dartier  said  to  me: 

"Do  you  know  that  Monsieur  and  Madame  Pira- 
nello  are  together  again?  He  nearly  killed  his  Dane 
one  night:  he  found  her  morphia  drunk  with  the 
coachman:  and  he  turned  them  out  into  the  night: 

205 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

she  has  disappeared,  and  a  good  thing,  too.  .  .  . 
Claire  went  back  to  him  at  once.  She's  good,  if  you 
like,  but  foolish — blind,  I  mean,  to  her  own  interest 
as  all  good  women  are.  R would  have  mar- 
ried her  at  any  moment,  and  given  her  every- 
thing. .  .  ." 

"Everything,  except  the"  one  thing  she  wanted/'  I 
added.  Madame  Dartier  smiled  and  nodded  with 
perfect  comprehension. 

When  I  spoke  to  Dartier,  I  found  him  less  hope- 
ful: 

"I  believe  Piranello  still  sees  his  Dane:  she's  like 
a  taste  for  absinthe,  that  woman :  if  you  once  get  it 
you'll  die  with  it  or  of  it,"  and  he  laughed.  "If 
Claire  ever  finds  him  out  there  will  be  a  final  rup- 
ture. She's  very  proud  and  won't  stand  it.  What 
he  can  see  in  that  bag  of  bones  I  can't  imagine,  yet 
she  holds  him  like  a  glue-pot." 

The  following  summer  Dartier's  prediction  came 
true. 

Madame  Piranello,  he  told  me,  had  left  her  hus- 
band finally:  she  had  caught  him  with  the  Dane, 
whom  he  would  not  promise  to  give  up. 

"A  miserable  business  altogether,"  said  Dartier. 
"Piranello  is  going  to  the  devil,  though  I  hear  he 
is  working  on  a  big  picture — the  Faust  story.  He 
206 


A  French  Artist 

has  altered  terribly.     He  takes  morphia,  too,  now; 
like  grows  to  like." 

"And  Madame  Piranello?"  I  questioned. 

"Oh,  she's  all  right,"  he  replied.  "A  charming 
little  woman.  My  wife  had  her  here  for  two  or 
three  weeks:  she  is  now  living  again  at  the  little 
house  near  Fontainebleau:  my  wife  says  she  will 
not  be  unmarried  long.  There  are  half  a  dozen  men 
after  her.  She  is  charming,  you  know,  and  decora- 
tive and  wise  to  boot."  •, 

I  acquiesced,  but  I  was  a  little  hurt  by  his  care- 
less talk.  I  determined  to  call  on  Madame  Pira- 
nello and  see  for  myself  how  the  wind  was  blowing. 

I  found  just  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  her  which 
I  regretted:  it  came  out  when  we  talked  of  Pira- 
nello. 

"So  you  tried  the  great  experiment,"  I  began.  "It 
was  very  brave  of  you — very  brave  and  kind." 

"A  poor  farce,"  she  said.  "We  women  cannot 
give  sight  to  the  blind :  God  alone  can  do  that." 

"It  was  a  mistake,  then?"  I  asked. 

Her  eyebrows  went  up. 

"That  Danish  fiend  has  got  him,"  she  said;  "now 
we  shall  see  what  she  makes  of  him.  If  she  helps 
him  to  great  things,  she's  justified:  but  she  won't. 
I  know  him  so  well.     He's  a  big  child,  and  needs  to 

207 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

be  taken  care  of.  Really  I  always  took  great  care 
of  him,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  and  now  .  .  . 
she  only  wants  a  companion  on  the  road  to  hell." 

She  broke  off. 

"She  informed  me  one  day  that  he  had  made  me, 
that  I  owed  whatever  talent  I  had  to  him — la  bonne 
blague — it's  very  little  one  can  owe  anybody.  .  .  ." 

I  was  struck  by  her  wisdom. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  I  said,  "about  your 
early  life!" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "there's  nothing  to  tell.  I  was 
brought  up  in  the  usual  way.  Perhaps  a  little  more 
strictly  than  usual — a  Convent  school  and  a  bour- 
geois home — all  stupid  and  proper,  you  know.  Of 
course  w,e  girls  talked,  and  what  one  did  not  know, 
the  other  did,  and  if  we  were  kept  on  the  chain,  so 
to  speak,  our  thoughts  and  imaginations  were  free 
and  they  roamed  about  in  vagabond  fancies.  What 
a  gorgeous  life  that  is  of  a  girl's  day-dreams,  and 
nightly  imaginings.  The  day  dreams — all  poems  of 
fairy  princes  and  leaders  of  men  and  heroes.  And 
the  night  fancies  when  one  can  pull  the  clothes  over 
one's  head  and  imagine  what  one  likes,  trying  to 
relieve  our  desires  in  dreams — the  fear  of  the  pur- 
suer, and  the  hope  that  we  shall  be  overtaken  and 
208 


A  French  Artist 

feel  the  strong  arms  about  us,  and  the  man's  lips  on 
ours.  .  .  . 

"Then  one  afternoon  Piranello  came  and  took 
away  my  breath.  Oh,  I  admit  it — he's  so  handsome 
and  dark  and  strong,  so  different  from  anything  I 
had  imagined — so  priestlike,  interesting.  I  was  all 
in  a  flutter.  He  took  me  to  his  studio  with  my 
mother,  and  I  saw  his  paintings — and  that  aston- 
ishing Madonna  he  did  with  the  curious  half-smile 
of  content  more  enigmatical  than  Leonardo's.  Of 
course,  I  loved  him.  Love  taught  me  both  what  he 
wanted  and  what  I  wanted.   .  .  . 

"Curious,  isn't  it?  One  does  not  see  one's  own 
type  at  first.  As  a  girl  one's  a  fool.  I  would  have 
given  anything  for  a  little  Grecian  nose — one  seeks 
to  hide  one's  peculiarities,  instead  of  accentuating 
them.  How  blind  one  is,  and  then  suddenly  one 
learns  from  a  man  or  a  painting,  or  gradually  by 
experience,  that  it  is  better  to  be  oneself,  and  by 
being  oneself  one  suddenly  becomes  a  personage — 
originality  is  individuality,  personality — anything 
you  like — even  genius.   .   .   ." 

"You  are  very  wise,"  I  said.  "It  is  quite  true: 
all  you  say  is  quite  true;  but  how  did  the  difficulty 
arise?" 

She  sighed  a  little. 

209 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"I  hardly  know.  Piranello  wanted  to  keep  me  as 
I  was.  But  I  learned  the  lesson:  I  was  changing — 
love  had  taught  me  many  things,  passion,  too,  had 
taught  me.  He  wished  me  to  be  stationary,  inno- 
cent and  angular  of  body,  with  unseeing  eyes.  But 
I  could  not  remain  a  girl,  and  he  would  not  realize 
that  it  is  the  hint  of  understanding  which  makes 
innocence  mysterious  and  the  suggestion  of  curve 
which  makes  the  line  seductive.  My  development 
was  normal:  it  followed  the  ordinary  course,  while 
he  is  a  sort  of  morbid  development." 

"Will  you  never  go  back  to  him  again?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  never,"  she  replied.  "It's  final.  I  did  all  I 
could,  more  than  I  ought  to  have  done.  It  was  all 
useless,  and  worse  than  useless.  He  has  gone  under 
and  wants  to  go  lower.  ...  A  woman  must  not  let 
pity  master  her:  it  is  as  dangerous  for  her  as  it  is 
for  the  man  to  let  passion  master  him — passion  and 
compassion  are  our  mortal  enemies." 

It  was  two  or  three  years  before  I  saw  or  heard 
of  them  again,  and  then  I  got  a  message  through 
Dartier  from  Piranello,  asking  me  to  come  and  see 
his  pictures.  I  went  and  was  shocked  by  his  appear- 
ance. He  had  shrunk  to  one  half  his  former  size 
and  aged  beyond  recognition.     The  face  that  had 

210 


A  French  Artist 

been  rather  plump  was  all  seamed  and  lined  and 
wrinkled.  The  skin  had  fallen  into  pouches,  the 
large  eyes  had  grown  small :  the  black  hair  all  gray, 
scant  on  the  temples,  wispy,  thin: 

"Ah,  I  have  changed,"  he  said:  the  very  voice 
had  dwined  away. 

After  talking.of  this  and  that  he  soon  got  on  his 
art. 

"I  want  to  show  you  my  pictures,"  he  cried,  "my 
great  picture.  It  is  symbolic.  You  know  I  used  to 
talk  of  life  as  a  treasure-house  in  which  you  found 
everything.  It's  not  a  treasure-house,"  he  said, 
coming  close  to  me  and  speaking  in  a  whisper. 
"It's  hell,"  and  his  yellow,  tired  eyes  bored  into 
mine.  .   .  . 

"You  know  the  old  legend  of  Faust?"  he  went  on. 
"He  asks  the  devil  for  this  and  for  that  and  the 
devil  gives  him  all  he  asks,  and  as  he  gives,  the  devil 
takes  pieces  of  his  soul  in  exchange,  till  he  has  got 
it  all.  .  .  .  Life  gives  us  this  and  that  of  our  heart's 
desire,  and  takes  our  soul  in  exchange  piecemeal, 
and  our  friends  come  to  us  and  beg  us  not  to  give 
the  last  bit  when  we  have  already  given  it,"  and  he 
grinned  savagely,  "and  then  we  die  because  without 
a  soul  the  body  rots,  doesn't  it?  the  soul's  the  salt. 
.  .  .  I've  imagined  the  world-devil  like  a  king.    He 

211 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

gives  Faust  riches  and  honor  and  beauty — girl  after 
girl,  fashioned  to  his  desire,  and  when  Faust  asked 
for  more  he  said,  'You  have  nothing  more  to  give 
me  in  exchange.  You  are  all  mine.  You  have  been 
mine  for  a  long  time :  don't  bother  me — you  silly 
fool'!" 

His  voice  had  grown  shrill.  I  stared  at  him: 
there  was  insanity  in  his  working  face  and  in  the 
wild  sadness  of  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

"And  your  Dane?"  I  asked,  to  shake  off  the  effect 
of  his  bitterness. 

"She's  dead,"  he  threw  out  indifferently,  "she 
took  an  overdose  one  night.  .   .  ." 

******* 

I  never  saw  him  again,  but  I  heard  of  him  only 
last  year.  It  came  about  in  this  way:  I  was  in- 
vited to  M.  Souchard's,  you  know  the  man  who 
made  a  great  fortune  in  Paris  by  the  lines  of  steam- 
ers.   There  I  met  Claire.    She  had  married  R 

shortly  after  our  last  talk,  and  had  now  two  chil- 
dren. It.  was  at  her  home  that  I  heard  of  Piranello 
again  from  Dartier. 

"A  funny  history,"  he  said.  "I  always  knew  that 
she  would  succeed  and  that  Piranello  would  come  to 
grief.  We  are  all  wise  after  the  event:  the  unex- 
pected soon  becomes  the  inevitable." 

212 


A  French  Artist 

"What  happened?"  I  asked. 

"She  must  not  guess  we  are  talking  about  it,"  he 
said,  drawing  me  aside.  "I  can  tell  you  all  there  is 
to  be  told  in  five  minutes.  Piranello  had  a  little 
Italian  model,  with  whom  he  was  in  love,  and  she 
had  a  friend  as  usual,  her  amant  de  coeur.  One 
night  Piranello  found  them  in  the  studio  together: 
he  had  a  mania  for  discoveries,  you  may  remember. 
I  suppose  he  thought  himself  as  strong  as  ever,  for 
he  attacked  the  young  Italian,  who  threw  him,  and 
he  struck  against  the  great  crucifix,  you  remember 
his  enameled  crucifix.  The  cross,  it  appears,  tipped 
over  and  crushed  him — -the  cross  of  his  own  mak- 
ing. .   .  ." 

Nice,  May,  1910. 


213 


A  Fool's  Paradise 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

WESTBURY  and  Clayton  had  been  friends 
since  their  student  days.  Westbury  was  a 
general  practitioner,  who  in  twenty  years  had 
brought  it  to  Harley  Street  and  comparative  riches. 
Clayton,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  well  off  even 
as  a  student,  and  had  specialized  as  soon  as  he  could. 
After  getting  his  degree  in  London  he  had  spent 
five  years  in  German  Augen-Kliniken,  and  was  now 
one  of  the  first  oculists  in  London,  and  esteemed 
even  in  Berlin  and  Vienna.  He  cared  little  for 
money  and  much  for  his  craft,  and  as  he  grew  older 
the  scientific  side  of  his  work  became  an  art  to  him 
of  engrossing  interest.  The  two  men  were  dissimi- 
lar in  looks,  as  in  purpose  and  mind.  John  West- 
bury  was  an  ordinary  short,  stout  Englishman,  with 
an  irregular,  strong  face  and  kindly  brown  eyes;  he 
liked  his  profession,  except  the  getting  up  at  night, 
and  he  worked  hard  because  he  wanted  to  leave  his 
wife  and  children  well  provided  for,  and  was  ener- 
getic by  nature.     His  chief  pleasure  was  a  night  at 

217 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

a  music-hall  or  a  game  of  golf.  Clayton,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  unmarried,  slight  and  tall,  with 
hatchet  face,  thin  features,  and  visionary  gray  eyes 
which  had  a  sort  of  mesmeric  attraction  for  some 
women  and  children.  He  found  it  impossible  to 
make  new  friends,  a  sort  of  shyness  having  grown 
upon  him  through  his  absorption  in  his  art;  but  he 
loved  to  motor  about  the  country  at  random;  and 
when  he  could  get  Westbury  to  accompany  him  he 
was  delighted,  for  Westbury  not  only  recalled  his 
past  youth  to  him,  but  made  the  present  vivid  with 
stories  and  scraps  of  practical  experience. 

In  the  August  of  1908  the  two  friends  were  on  a 
motor  drive  through  the  South  of  England.  They 
took  it  very  leisurely,  going  hither  and  thither  as 
fancy  or  whim  directed.  A  week  of  such  vagrancy 
had  rather  bored  Westbury,  who  always  wanted 
some  purpose  even  in  pleasure.  He  could  not  help 
preferring  the  known  comforts  of  life  to  the  untried 
distractions;  he  suddenly  proposed  that  they  should 
go  to  Winchester  and  visit  the  cathedral  and  school. 
He  thought  it  would  be  a  good  opportunity  to  decide 
whether  the  school  would  suit  his  eldest  son,  of 
whom  he  was  inordinately  proud.  Clayton  assented, 
though  a  definite  intention  when  he  was  pleasuring 
annoyed  him  like  a  straight  road.  They  spent  the 
218 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

night  in  a  very  prim  hotel  in  Winchester,  and  in  the 
morning  went  over  the  school  and  saw  the  wooden 
platters  the  boys  ate  from,  and  were  amused  to  hear 
how  the  scholars  arranged  the  mashed  potatoes 
round  their  quaint  plates  so  as  to  keep  the  gravy 
within  bounds.  After  an  hour  or  so  in  the  old- 
world  surroundings  they  got  into  the  car  again,  and 
went  out  to  Holy  Cross  and  tasted  the  thin  beer  and 
bread  given  in  alms  to  every  wayfarer  for  some  five 
hundred  years  now.  Westbury  wished  to  visit  the 
cathedral,  but  Clayton  proposed  to  drive  somewhere 
into  the  country  and  take  pot-luck  for  lunch.  West- 
bury  hated  pot-luck;  but  as  Clayton  had  yielded  to 
him  in  almost  everything  day  after  day,  he  felt  he 
must  risk  it,  especially  as  the  chauffeur  assured  him 
that  he  knew  a  place  near  Petersfield  where  one  could 
get  a  very  good  lunch  indeed.  The  chauffeur's  prom- 
ise was  more  than  fulfilled,  and  after  an  excellent 
plain  meal  the  two  men  mooned  down  the  village 
high  street  that  straggled  about  as  if  it,  too,  were 
without  purpose  in  the  world. 

Of  a  sudden,  just  where  the  street  broke  into  the 
open  country,  they  came  upon  a  knot  of  boys  making 
fun  of  a  youth  who  stood  with  his  back  to  a  gate 
laughing.      Westbury's    attention   was   immediately 

219 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

caught  by  the  unusual  spectacle.  He  questioned  one 
of  the  urchins. 

"It's  only  Clarence  Jones,"  said  the  boy.  "He's 
not  right,  sir;  he's  funny,  and  he  do  say  funny 
things;  he  talks  and  laughs  to  himself,  and  that 
makes  we  laugh." 

"You  oughtn't  to  tease  him,"  said  Westbury. 
"Where  does  he  live?" 

"With  his  mother,  there,"  replied  the  boy,  point- 
ing to  a  homely  little  cottage  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  road,  with  a  few  trees  about  it. 

"He  doesn't  look  like  an  idiot,"  said  Westbury 
to  Clayton,  who  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  the 
boy's  explanation. 

"No,"  Clayton  admitted,  waking  up;  "a  well- 
formed  head.     Is  he  an  idiot?" 

"They  say  so,"  replied  Westbury  carelessly.  "A 
merciful  providence,  isn't  it,  that  so  many  idiots 
seem  to  be  happy?  This  fellow  appears  to  be  highly 
amused." 

"Rather  unusual,  isn't  it?"  asked  Clayton,  look- 
ing at  the  idiot  more  intently.  "There  seems  to  be 
a  sort  of  meaning  in  his  laughter.  I  wonder  whether 
he  is  an  idiot?" 

"Of  course  he  is,"  Westbury  decided.  "No  sane 
220 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

person  would  stand  there  to  be  mocked  at  and  laugh 
with  delight" 

Clayton  did  not  appear  to  be  convinced,  for  he 
went  over  to  the  youth  and  began  to  talk  to  him, 
examining  him  the  while  covertly.  Westbury,  on 
the  other  hand,  -followed  his  bent  by  trying  to  find 
out  from  the  gang  of  boys  all  about  Jones. 

It  appeared  that  his  mother  was  the  widow  of  a 
gamekeeper,  who  had  been  beaten  to  death  one 
night  by  poachers.  Westbury  scented  a  tragedy, 
and  was  eager  to  learn  all  about  the  case;  but  the 
urchins  had  not  much  to  tell  him. 

Strange  to  say,  Clayton  appeared  to  be  peculiarly 
interested  in  the  idiot. 

"A  most  extraordinary  case,"  he  said,  returning 
to  Westbury.  "I  want  to  examine  him  properly.  I 
should  like  to  talk  with  his  father." 

"He's  only  got  a  mother,"  replied  Westbury, 
"but  we  could  go  and  see  her.  I  expect  she'll  be 
delighted  to  see  you  if  you  think  you  can  do  any- 
thing for  him.    What  do  you  make  of  him?" 

"I  want  to  examine  him,"  repeated  Clayton. 

"There  is  not  much  to  be  done  with  him,"  re- 
marked Westbury.  "He's  been  an  idiot  from  birth, 
I  hear." 

Just  then  the  idiot  appeared  to  notice  Westbury 

221 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

for  the  first  time,  for  he  broke  into  peals  of  wild, 
hysterical  laughter,  bending  down  and  rubbing  his 
legs  with  his  hands  in  uncouth  gestures  of  delight. 

"He's  as  mad  as  a  March  hare,"  exclaimed  West- 
bury,  with  a  certain  natural  irritation. 

"He  may  be,"  Clayton  admitted,  "but  let's  go  and 
see  the  mother." 

Mrs.  Jones  was  a  thin,  neatly  dressed  woman, 
whose  speech  was  much  above  her  position  in  life. 
She  had  good  eyes  and  forehead,  and  the  small, 
regular  features  showed  traces  of  prettiness,  but  her 
expression  was  subdued  and  anxious.  When  told 
by  Westbury  that  they  were  two  doctors,  and  that 
they  took  an  interest  in  her  boy,  "At  least,  my  friend 
here,  the  great  oculist,  does,"  she  invited  them  into 
her  cottage,  and  at  Clayton's  request  showed  him 
into  the  little  parlor  in  order  that  he  might  examine 
her  son  at  his  ease.  Westbury  preferred  to  stay 
with  the  mother  in  the  little  porch  and  finish  his 
cigar. 

He  soon  heard  her  whole  story.  Her  husband,  a 
great,  strong  man,  head  gamekeeper  to  the  lord  of 
the  manor,  had  been  brought  home  eighteen  years 
before  with  his  head  battered  in. 

"There  must  have  been  three  or  four  at  him,"  she 
declared  proudly.     "He  died  in  that  room  in  the 

222 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

morning  just  as  the  nurse  came;  I  was  only  half 
conscious — silly-like.  When  I  saw  them  carry  him 
in  with  his  poor  head  all  blood  I  seemed  to  turn 
cold  inside.  I  went  all  dazed.  I  was  expecting  my 
baby,  sir,  and  was  not  very  strong.  ...  I  suppose 
I  was  out  of  my  head,  for  when  I  got  to  notice 
things  he  had  been  buried  two  days" — she  wiped 
her  eyes  and  sniffed — "and  I  was  all  alone  with  my 
daughter  and  the  baby.  .  .  . 

"The  old  squire  has  been  very  good  to  me.  He 
has  allowed  me  ten  shillin'  a  week  ever  since,  and 
this  house  rent-free.  Oh!  he's  been  very  kind  al- 
ways; and  my  daughter  married  a  draper  at  Alton, 
and  is  very  well  off.  She  and  her  husband  Mr. 
'Arding,  a  very  superior  man,  a  gentleman,  as  you 
might  say,  often  drive  across  of  a  Sunday  to  see  me. 
It's  his  own  trap,  kept  private.  .  .  .  I'm  quite  com- 
fortable, though  it's  lonesome  here.  You  see,  I 
was  lady's-maid  in  London  before  my  marriage,  and 
this  cottage  seems  very  lonely-like.  .  .  .  I'm  always 
grieving  about  Clarence;  he  was  such  a  dear  big 
baby.  He  never  cried  in  his  life;  but  just  when  he 
ought  to  have  begun  learning  his  letters  and  notic- 
ing things,  he  took  to  this  laughin'.  ...  If  your 
friend  could  cure  him  we'd  all  be  thankful,  I'm  sure, 
though  Clarence  is  not  so  silly  as  you'd  think  .  .  . 

223 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

he  is  wonderful  sensible  sometimes  .  .  .  and  he  al- 
ways does  what  I  tell  him.  .   .  ." 

Westbury  comforted  her  as  best  he  could,  and 
talked  of  other  things,  wondering  in  himself  the 
while  what  on  earth  Clayton  could  find  in  the  idiot 
to  keep  him  so  long. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  parlor  opened,  and  Clay- 
ton beckoned  to  them.  Westbury  preceded  the 
widow  into  the  little  room.  The  idiot  again  burst 
into  his  hideous  cachinnation  at  the  sight  of  West- 
bury, doubling  himself  up  with  laughter.  The 
mother  walked  over  to  him  and  stroked  his  head, 
saying: 

"You  must  not  laugh  at  the  gentleman,  Clarence; 
it's  rude  to  laugh." 

Clarence  evidently  understood,  and  tried  to  obey. 
He  stood  with  twisted  face,  giggling,  trying  his  best 
to  control  himself. 

"A  most  remarkable  case,  Mrs.  Jones,"  said  Clay- 
ton. "I  don't  know  yet,  but  I'm  inclined  to  think  I 
can  cure  your  son  and  make  him  like  other  boys." 

The  mother's  face  flushed,  and  she  put  up  her 
hand  as  if  to  ward  off  the  shock.  "Really,  sir?" 
was  all  she  could  say. 

"I'm  not  sure,  you  know,"  Clayton  went  on.  "I 
don't  want  to  lift  your  hopes  too  high,  but  the  boy 
224 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

seems  to  me  sensible  enough  were  it  not  for  this 
laughing." 

"That's  it,  that's  it,  sir!"  cried  the  mother,  stretch- 
ing out  both  her  hands.  "He's  sensible  underneath, 
is  Clarence,  and  as  good  as  gold.  He's  never  any 
trouble  at  all,  and  he  understands  any  questions  I 
ask  him:  don't  you,  Clarence,  dear?" 

The  boy  looked  at  her  and  began  to  laugh  quietly, 
as  if  amused  by  the  question. 

"I  shall  have  to  see  him  in  London,"  Clayton  ex- 
plained, "and  make  a  close  examination.  I  must  get 
a  strong  light  on  his  eyes.  Can  you  bring  him  or 
send  him  up  to  me?" 

The  woman  hesitated. 

"If  I  decide  that  an  operation  is  necessary  I 
would  not  charge  you  anything  for  it;  but  I  should 
have  to  keep  the  boy  for  a  couple  of  months  to  in- 
sure a  proper  recovery." 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Jones,  "and  I'll  tell  my  daughter  what  you  say.  Do 
you  think  you  can  make  him  all  right,  sir?"  Her 
doubting  eagerness  was  pathetic. 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  so,"  repeated  Clayton. 
"Here's  my  card,  and  if  you  decide  to  let  me  have 
a  try,  I'll  do  my  best." 

225 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said.     "I'll  tell  all  you  say 
to  my  daughter  and  her  husband,  and  let  you  know." 
******* 

As  they  walked  toward  the  inn  Westbury  ques- 
tioned Clayton. 

"What  bee's  got  in  your  bonnet,  Dave?"  he  cried. 
"Nothing  on  earth  could  do  that  idiot  any  good 
unless  you  could  put  new  brains  into  his  head.  What 
do  you  mean  by  talking  of  an  examination?" 

"It's  a  very  peculiar  case,"  replied  Clayton,  as  if 
to  himself,  his  eyes  turned  inward  in  thought,  "a 
most  interesting  case" ;  and  then,  waking  up,  "I'll 
let  you  know  about  it,  if  they  send  him  to  me." 

"The  only  interesting  thing  I  can  see  in  the  mat- 
ter," rejoined  Westbury,  "is  the  fact  that  the  shock 
of  seeing  her  husband  murdered  made  the  poor 
woman  give  birth  to  an  idiot,  and  an  idiot  who 
laughs  at  everything.     Murderous  cruelty  producing 

idiot  laughter — it's  a  mad  world.   .   .   ." 

******* 

Some  few  months  later  Westbury  called  one  after- 
noon on  Clayton,  and  spent  the  evening  with  him  in 
his  study  overlooking  Regent's  Park.  They  had 
been  talking  a  few  minutes,  when  Westbury  ex- 
claimed: 

226 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

"By  the  way,  I  hear  you  have  had  Clarence  Jones 
up  here  and  worked  a  miracle  on  him." 

"The  operation  was  successful,"  Clayton  ad- 
mitted. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  him,  really?  You 
were  very  mysterious  about  it." 

"Not  mysterious,"  replied  Clayton,  "only  doubt- 
ful. I  could  not  see  his  eyes  properly  at  first,  but 
when  I  had  him  here  and  examined  him  closely  it 
was  all  pretty  plain  sailing." 

"What  was  wrong  with  him?"  cried  Westbury. 
"Did  it  explain  that  continual  laughing  of  his?" 

"It  explained  everything,"  replied  Clayton.  "His 
eyes  were  abnormal.  You  wouldn't  meet  another 
pair  like  them  in  a  lifetime.  .  .  .  There  were  little 
growths  in  the  pupils,  so  that  each  eye  had  half  a 
dozen  facets,  so  to  speak.  The  boy  saw  every  sepa- 
rate object  in  half  a  dozen  different  aspects,  just  as 
if  he  were  looking  into  those  concave  and  convex 
mirrors  you  have  in  fairs.  Nearly  every  object 
therefore  was  amusing  to  him,  though  some  things, 
of  course,  appeared  elongated  and  lugubrious.  .  .  . 
I  had  to  remove  all  the  little  growths  one  by  one — 
rather  ticklish  work — and  give  the  pupil  time  to  knit 
and  heal,  and  the  eye  was  perfect." 

"My  God!"  cried  Westbury,  "what  a  magician's 

227 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

wand  that  scalpel  of  yours  is;  with  it  you  turn  an 
idiot  into  an  ordinary  boy — and  an  unpleasant  idiot 
at  that,"  he  added,  a  little  malevolently.  "His 
mother,  I  suppose,  is  enchanted?" 

"She  writes  very  nicely  to  me  about  it.  She  was 
altogether  a  superior  woman,  you  remember.  .  .  . 
I  have  her  letter  somewhere,"  and  he  turned  over 
some  papers  on  his  desk. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  going  down  to  see  them?" 
remarked  Westbury.  "There's  no  pleasure  like  the 
pleasure  we  have  in  a  really  wonderful  cure." 

"I'll  run  down  some  time  in  the  summer  prob- 
ably," Clayton  rejoined;  "but  there  is  nothing  to  go 
for  immediately.     The  boy's  eyes  when  I  sent  him 
home  were  perfectly  normal  and  strong.  .   .  ." 
******* 

In  the  early  spring  Clayton  was  surprised  and  not 
a  little  annoyed  by  a  letter  he  received  from  Mrs. 
Jones.  She  asked  him  to  come  down  and  see  Clar- 
ence as  soon  as  he  could.  The  boy  was  "out  of 
sorts,"  she  said,  and  caused  her  great  anxiety. 

"Out  of  sorts "  Clayton  could  not  under- 
stand it.  But  as  he  practiced  chiefly  for  his  own 
pleasure  and  had  been  really  interested  in  the  op- 
eration on  the  boy's  eyes,  he  took  an  early  oppor- 
tunity of  motoring  to  the  village. 
228 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

Mrs.  Jones  met  him  at  the  garden  gate. 

"I  got  your  telegram,  sir,  saying  you  were  com- 
ing," she  exclaimed  hurriedly.  "He's  inside,  but  I 
must  tell  you  about  him  first.  He's  not  happy, 
sir;  he's  very  depressed  and  disappointed  and 
angry " 

"Angry,"  repeated  Clayton;  "but  not  with  me,  I 
hope?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"With  every  one,"  repeated  Mrs.  Jones,  "I'm 
sorry  to  say,  and  with  you,  too,  sir,  very  angry. 
You'll  be  gentle  with  him,  won't  you,  sir?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  replied  Clayton,  his  mind 
trying  to  grasp  the  new  situation;  "of  course  I  shall 
be  gentle.  Everything's  new  to  him,  I  suppose,  and 
strange?" 

"That's  it,  sir;  and  he  thinks  everything's  your 
fault." 

"I'm  very  sorry.  Let  me  see  him  at  once,"  said 
Clayton,  really  astonished.  "I'll  do  my  best,  you 
know." 

In  another  minute  the  doctor  and  patient  were 
face  to  face.  The  youth  stood  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  near  the  fireplace  with  averted  face  glowering. 

"What  is  it,  Clarence?"  asked  Clayton  pleasantly, 
going  toward  him.     "I  hear  you're  unhappy." 

The  youth  looked  at  him  without  a  word,  his 

229 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

face  set  with  rage ;  and  now  that  his  eyes  were  nor- 
mal one  could  see  that  it  was  a  fine  face,  well-shaped 
and  well-featured;  but  the  merry  look  had  gone, 
and  in  its  place  was  scowling  hate. 

"What's  the  matter?"  repeated  Clayton,  a  little 
shocked  by  the  youth's  manifest  rage  and  dislike. 

"Matter,"  repeated  the  young  man  slowly.  "I 
suppose  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to  you,  oughtn't  I?" 
he  sneered. 

"I  should  think  so,"  replied  Clayton,  a  little  net- 
tled, "though  I  don't  expect  gratitude.  I  did  my 
best  for  you,  and  got  nothing  out  of  it." 

"Did  I  ask  you  to  do  anything  for  me?"  cried 
the  boy.    "Who  asked  you  to  interfere?" 

"Any  one  would  do  a  kind  act  without  being 
asked,"  Clayton  answered  gravely. 

"A  kind  act?"  cried  the  young  man,  seizing  the 
table  with  both  Rands  and  thrusting  his  hot  face 
forward.     "A  kind  act,  you  call  it?" 

"Certainly,"  retorted  Clayton;  "a  kind  act  to 
turn  a  laughing  idiot  into  an  ordinary  youth.  I 
should  think  so,  indeed." 

"Ordinary  be  damned!"  cried  the  youth;  "ordi- 
nary!   Till  you  came  I  was  happy,  happy  as  a  king. 
I  was  more  than  contented.     Everything  I  saw  was 
wonderful  to  me.     Even  the  boys  who  laughed  at 
230 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

me  and  mocked  me  were  comic  creatures  who  amused 
me.  There  they  were,  the  grinning  faces,  dozens  of 
'em — all  different,  too  funny  for  anything.  I  was 
amused  from  morning  till  night.  My  mother  took 
care  of  me ;  I  lacked  nothing ;  all  my  life  was  a  dream 
of  pleasure.  .   .  . 

"Then  you  came  where  you  were  not  wanted,  and 
with  your  damned  cleverness  robbed  me  of  all  the 
joy  and  wonder,  turned  me  from  a  king  with  all  the 
world  for  my  fools  into  a  dull,  ordinary  creature. 

"Not  ordinary  even,"  he  went  on  wildly,  as  if 
the  word  excited  him,  "but  behind  everybody  else, 
more  stupid.  I  cannot  even  go  to  school.  I  don't 
know  anything.  Every  one  pities  and  despises  me 
now.  Here  I  sit  all  day  long  trying  to  learn  to  read 
and  to  make  pothooks.     The  devil  could  not  have 

done  worse  to  me  than  you've  done,  you "  and 

the  young  man  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  leaned 
his  burning  face  on  his  hands. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Clayton  gently,  going  over 
to  him,  genuinely  affected  by  his  misery.  "Come, 
come,  Clarence,  all  this  will  pass.  You  will  soon 
overtake  the  other  boys,  and  as  soon  as  you  learn 
to  read  easily  you  will  have  books  and  all  the  wisest 
men  as  your  companions.  You  will  soon  see  that 
you  are  better  off." 

231! 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

"Do  you  think  I  haven't  told  myself  that?"  cried 
the  youth,  looking  up  with  streaming  eyes.  "But  it 
is  not  true;  the  charm  and  wonder  of  the  world 
have  gone  from  me  forever.  I  shall  never  see  the 
comic  faces  again;  never  again  notice  the  thousand 
different  shades  of  expression,  never  again.  How 
could  you?  How  could  you?  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God! 
how  miserable  I  am!" 

Clayton  drew  up  a  chair;  he  was  interested,  in 
spite  of  himself,  by  the  bitterness  of  the  youth's 
grief.    He  put  his  arm  around  his  shoulder. 

"In  a  little  while,  Clarence,  you  will  be  able  to 
study  all  sorts  of  expressions  not  only  in  the  living 
people  about  you,  but  in  books.  You  will  come  to 
know  all  the  great  men  and  women  who  have  lived 
before  you. 

"I  have  taken  away  from  you  an  unreal  world; 
but  you  have  got  the  real  world  instead,  and  it  is  an 
infinitely  richer  world  than  the  one  you  have  lost, 
for  it  holds  all  the  past  as  well  as  the  present.  Think 
of  that."  He  spoke  with  infinite  gentleness;  but  the 
youth  would  not  be  comforted.  He  looked  up  at 
him  with  his  face  all  shaken. 

"You  don't  know,  you  don't  know !"  he  cried.  "I 
was  happy,  happy  as  a  god  in  my  own  paradise,  and 
now  I  am  outcast  and  miserable — less  than  nothing. 
232 


A  FooPs  Paradise 

Girls  came  to  me  and  wanted  to  know  why  I  laughed 
at  them,  what  I  saw  in  their  faces;  and  I  saw  such 
wonderful  things.  Now  nothing — every  face  is  al- 
ways the  same;  men  and  women — like  the  faces  of 
sheep  or  cows — nothing  in  them.  Oh !  it  is  a  dread- 
ful world — common  and  ugly  and  always  the  same. 
I  hate  it,  hate  it  all.  .  .  .  You  robbed  me  of  para- 
dise, thrust  me  out  into  this  beastly  ugly  world;  and 
I  had  never  done  you  any  harm — never,  never.  .  .  ." 

He  wept  with  such  passion  that  Clayton  began  to 
fear  that  he  would  make  himself  ill.  After  trying 
in  vain  to  cheer  him  with  some  commonplace  con- 
solation, he  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Jones  met  him  with  questioning,  anxious 
eyes :  he  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

"It's  worse  than  I  thought,  Mrs.  Jones.  I  want 
to  go  and  think  it  all  over.  A  man  may  do  great 
harm  with  the  best  intentions;  but  I  think  it  will 
be  all  right  in  time.  He's  an  astonishing  youth;  in 
time  he'll  get  accustomed  to  the  change  and  find 
compensations." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,  sir,"  cried  the  mother. 
"At  first  he  set  to  work  and  was  not  unhappy;  he 
worked  very  hard  at  his  reading  and  writing.  Clar- 
ence has  a  great  deal  of  sense,"  she  added;  "he 
often  surprises  me  by  what  he  says.     But  as  time 

233' 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

went  on  he  seemed  to  find  it  harder  and  harder.  .  .  . 
"He  began  to  read  the  Bible,  sir.  I  thought 
'twould  do  him  good,  and  ever  since  he  has  talked 
about  being  driven  out  of  paradise  and  a  devil  with 
a  flaming  sword.  Sometimes  I'm  really  afraid  for 
his  reason.  You  don't  think  he'll  go  mad,  do  you, 
sir?" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Clayton;  "put  that  fear  out  of 
your  head;  his  mind's  all  right,  and  if  we  can  get 
his  hope  and  ambition  roused,  you'll  be  proud  of  him 
yet.  I'm  very  much  interested  in  him." 
She  nodded  her  head  feebly,  doubtfully. 
"Thank  you,  sir.  I  had  better  go  to  him  now. 
After  one  of  these  fits  he  always  has  a  bad  head- 
ache. .  .  ." 

Clayton  went  to  the  inn  puzzled  and  annoyed. 
Reflection  showed  him  no  new  argument,  and  when 
he   returned  to  the  house  after  lunch  the  mother 
told  him  that  Clarence  had  gone  to  bed  worn  out, 
and  was  sleeping,  she  thought.     At  any  rate,  she 
was  sure  it  would  be  better  not  to  disturb  him.    Clay- 
ton returned  to  London,  promising  he  would  write. 
During  the  next   few   days  he   thought  a   good 
deal  about  the  matter,  and  at  length  came  to  a  de- 
cision and  wrote  his  patient  a  long  letter.     Before 
sending  it  he  went  round  to  Westbury,  in  whose  com- 
234 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

mon  sense  he  had  a  great  deal  of  confidence.  He 
told  Westbury  what  had  happened,  and  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  the  youth  and  his  paradise. 

Westbury  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"An  ungrateful  hound.  If  I  were  you  I'd  pay 
no  more  attention  to  him.  That's  the  sort  of  thanks 
you  get  in  life  when  you  do  good  to  people.  .  .  . 
I've  had  dozens  of  similar  experiences.  I  never 
look  for  gratitude  now,  and  never  meet  it.  Men 
are  ungrateful  by  nature,  and  women  spiteful  to 
boot.  Why  should  you  bother  yourself?  You  did 
everything  for  the  best." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Clayton  dubiously,  "and 
it  was  my  best.  Yet  the  doubt  torments  me.  The 
boy's  eyes  smarted  after  the  operation,  and  I  gave 
him  cocaine  to  dull  the  pain.  Surely  it's  my  duty  to 
diminish  the  discomforts  of  life  to  him  now.  I've 
written  him  a  letter,  and  I  want  you  to  hear  what 
I've  said.  I  must  encourage  him,  you  know.  .  .  . 
I'll  not  trouble  you  with  the  whole  screed — just  the 
gist  of  it.  I  begin  by  telling  him  that  his  experience 
is  not  singular,  though  it's  uncommon.  "Every  artist, 
every  great  man,  begins  life  like  an  ordinary  boy, 
and  so  long  as  he  is  commonplace  he  is  happy;  but 
when,  bit  by  bit,  he  grows  above  other  men,  he  be- 
gins to  see  men  and  women  as  Clarence  used  to  see 

235 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

them,  in  all  sorts  of  comic  lights  and  tragic  lights  as 
well,  and  the  pageant  of  life  becomes  infinitely  inter- 
esting to  him. 

"But  all  his  fellows  resent  his  superiority  and  do 
their  best  to  pay  him  out  for  it;  they  jeer  at  him  and 
insult  him;  they  hate  him,  in  fact,  and  if  they  get 
a  chance  they  punish  him  dreadfully. 

"All  great  men,  artists  and  thinkers  alike,  are 
agreed  that  genius  is  a  long  martyrdom,  that  happi- 
ness is  only  to  be  found  in  ordinary  conditions  and 
ordinary  life. 

"Success  and  praise  and  pleasure  are  all  got  by 
being  commonplace,  by  being  exactly  like  the  ordi- 
nary run  of  mankind,  one  of  the  many.   .  .  . 

"You  see,"  Clayton  broke  off,  "I  insist  on  all  this 
to  give  him  ambition  and  hope,  to  hearten  him ;  then 
I  go  on: 

"But  if,  indeed,  your  earlier  experiences  were  so 
delightful  that  you  can  do  nothing  but  pine  for  them 
and  desire  them,  you  may  win  them  all  back  again. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  set  yourself  to  learn  and 
to  grow  so  as  to  become  wiser  and  gentler  and  more 
loving  than  your  fellows,  and  you  will  then  see  the 
faces  of  men  and  women  once  again  in  a  hundred 
different  facets,  and  they  will  all  move  you  to  laugh- 
ter or  to  tears.  .  .  .  But  men  and  women  will  hate 
236 


A  Fool's  Paradise 

you  for  your  superiority  and  punish  you  for  it;  you 
will  be  thrust  out  of  the  paradise  of  ordinary  life, 
and  be  made  an  outcast  and  a  pariah  .  .  .  the 
Vision  Splendid  has  to  be  paid  for,  and  the  price  is 
heavy." 


237 


Within  the  Shadow 


Within  the  Shadow 

A  LICK  WILSON  was  from  Leith.  He  had 
gone  to  sea  as  a  lad,  and  now  at  twenty-five 
was  chief  officer  of  the  passenger  steamer  Amazon, 
which  plied  between  Hong  Kong  and  Shanghai.  He 
was  a  handsome  fellow,  with  blue  eyes  and  fair 
mustache,  and  more  than  the  brains  of  the  ordinary 
sailor.  Wilson  had  chosen  the  Eastern  Service  be- 
cause the  advancement  was  quicker,  the  pay  higher, 
and  also  a  little  because  the  East  drew  him;  China 
in  especial,  with  its  strange  customs  and  incompre- 
hensible spirit,  excited  his  curiosity,  attracted  him 
as  what  is  unknown  and  extraordinary  is  apt  to  at- 
tract the  young  and  romantic.  The  pull  of  China 
upon  him  was  so  overpowering  that  within  a  week 
after  seeing  Shanghai  for  the  first  time,  he  began 
to  study  Chinese  seriously.  Now,  after  three  years' 
work,  he  knew  the  language,  both  spoken  and  writ- 
ten, fairly  well,  and  found  the  knowledge  profitable. 
But  China  itself  and  the  Chinese  were  still  a  closed 
book  to  him;  he  knew  enough  to  be  sure  that  the 

241 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ordinary  English  sailor's  view  of  the  people  was 
silly  to  absurdity,  but  he  was  still  utterly  in  the  dark 
as  to  what  the  Chinese  really  were,  and  what  they 
desired;  their  customary  thoughts  and  their  ideals 
alike  hidden  from  him.  This  year,  however,  1909, 
was  destined  to  open  his  eyes  to  many  hitherto  un- 
dreamed-of things. 

In  Hong  Kong  they  shipped  a  Chinese  passenger 
of  great  importance,  the  Mandarin  Phang,  who  had 
been  sent  on  a  mission  to  Tokyo.  Phang  was  an 
ordinary  Chinaman  of  the  south,  small  of  stature 
and  of  very  quiet,  retiring  manners.  Wilson  thought 
him  old,  because  the  fixed,  impenetrable,  beady  black 
eyes  were  darned  about  by  innumerable  tiny 
wrinkles,  but  he  might  have  been  only  fifty  or  so,  to 
judge  by  his  walk  and  appearance.  He  was  evi- 
dently a  man  in  authority,  for  his  secretary  was 
always  obsequious  to  servility.  The  other  members 
of  his  suite  were  all  women,  but  neither  Wilson  nor 
any  other  of  the  personnel  of  the  Amazon  had  seen 
them  near  at  hand.  They  had  come  on  board  at 
night,  having  taken  the  chief  apartment,  and  spent 
most  of  their  time  in  their  rooms.  For  an  hour  or 
so  each  day,  however,  they  came  up  on  the  main  deck 
to  take  the  air,  but  on  these  occasions  they  kept 
strictly  to  themselves  and  seemed  afraid  even  of 
242 


Within  the  Shadow 

speaking  above  their  breath  to  each  other,  much  less 
to  any  of  the  ship's  crew  or  officers. 

Still,  it  became  known  that  one  of  them  was  old 
Phang's  wife,  and,  according  to  the  stewardess  and 
second  officer,  she  was  very  young — a  mere  child, 
not  yet  sixteen — and  very  pretty.  Wilson  heard  the 
talk,  but  paid  little  attention  to  it.  He  realized  by 
this  time  how  impossible  it  was  to  get  to  know  a 
Chinese  lady  of  good  class.  Besides,  he  had  his 
work  to  do,  and  it  was  engrossing,  and,  if  that  were 
not  enough,  he  had  made  large  purchases  on  his  own 
account  in  Hong  Kong,  and  was  a  good  deal  occu- 
pied with  plans  for  securing  the  largest  possible 
profit. 

For  the  first  three  days  the  weather  was  ideal;  a 
little  hot,  as  it  is  apt  to  be  toward  the  end  of  June, 
but  very  pleasant,  tempered  with  cool  airs  from  the 
north,  and  the  sea  was  calm  as  a  lake.  On  the 
Thursday  afternoon,  however  (they  had  left  Hong 
Kong  on  the  Monday),  the  outlook  changed;  the 
sun  went  down  in  a  blaze  of  color,  the  lofty  bell 
of  sky  without  a  cloud,  and  yet  Captain  Malcolm 
would  not  leave  the  bridge,  and  was  evidently  un- 
easy, though  one  could  hardly  say  why.  About  nine 
o'clock  the  moon  climbed  above  the  horizon,  a  moon 
like  a  conflagration — a  red  wafer — promising  fine 

243 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

weather,  and  yet  none  of  the  old  salts  standing 
about  could  rid  themselves  of  apprehension. 

Suddenly  Wilson  went  into  the  Captain's  deck 
cabin  to  consult  the  barometer;  in  a  trice  he  was 
back  again  and  on  the  bridge  beside  the  captain. 

"The  barometer  is  falling,  sir,"  he  said,  uas  if 
the  bottom  had  dropped  out  of  it." 

"We're  in  for  a  typhoon,"  remarked  Captain 
Malcolm  quietly;  "luckily  a  screw  steamer  can't  be 
taken  aback  like  a  sailing  ship."  And  he  added: 
"You'd  better  step  below  to  the  Pigtails  and  warn 
them  of  the  bad  weather,  and  put  everything  ship- 
shape for  them.  I'd  go  myself,  but  their  lingo  is 
beyond  me." 

Without  a  word,  Wilson  hurried  below  and  made 
straight  for  the  Mandarin's  stateroom;  he  didn't 
even  step  into  his  own  cabin  on  the  way  to  tidy  it 
up  a  bit  or  put  things  straight.  He  knocked  at  the 
stateroom  door  and,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  feel  himself  scrutinized,  the  door  slid 
open  and  discovered  Phang's  secretary.  Wilson 
blurted  out  what  he  had  to  say,  but  before  his  story 
was  ended  he  was  allowed  inside  and  asked  to  ex- 
plain by  Phang  himself,  who  was  with  his  wife  in 
the  saloon. 

Wilson  told  them  what  there  was  to  fear,  in  Chi- 
244 


Within  the  Shadow 

nese,  and  offered  to  go  into  their  bedrooms  and  se- 
cure whatever  was  loose  or  breakable,  but  while  he 
was  speaking  the  shock  came,  and  the  ship  was 
thrown  almost  on  her  beam  ends.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  Wilson  was  to  leeward  of  the  pair,  and  as 
the  ship  heeled  over  and  they  were  flung  downward, 
he  had  time  to  stem  his  foot  against  the  sofa  and 
catch  them — one  in  each  arm.  Phang  went  green, 
but  lost  nothing  of  his  polite  self-possession.  As 
the  ship  righted  herself  a  little  he  begged  Wilson  to 
help  him  to  his  bedroom,  as  if  no  one  existed  save 
himself.  Without  a  word  Wilson  placed  the  girl 
gently  on  the  sofa  behind  him;  her  veil  caught  in 
one  of  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  and  as  he  drew  away 
their  eyes  met — a  moment  only,  yet  Wilson  felt  as 
if  he  had  been  taken  possession  of;  never  had  he 
had  such  an  impression.  As  he  helped  Phang  to  his 
room  he  couldn't  help  saying  to  himself:  "How  ex- 
traordinary! What  did  her  eyes  say?  What  does 
she  mean?"  And  then,  with  a  start  of  astonish- 
ment: "How  lovely  she  is;  she  might  almost  be 
English !" 

The  vessel  had  already  begun  to  roll,  for  she  was 
very  light  and  the  sea  was  beginning  to  get  up. 
Phang  evidently  felt  the  motion,  for  he  turned 
ashen;  he  did  not  complain,  however,  but  lay  down 

245 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  asked  for  a  drink  of  water.  As  Wilson  turned 
to  get  it,  the  girl  came  into  the  room  and  fell  on  her 
knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  "What  can  I  do?" 
she  cried. 

"Go  to  your  room,  flower  of  the  waters,"  replied 
Phang,  "and  send  my  secretary  to  me;  this  sickness 
can  only  be  relieved  by  sleep.   .  .  ." 

They  must  have  been  caught  by  the  whirling  skirt 
of  the  storm,  for  instead  of  passing  through  it  in 
a  few  hours,  they  had  it  all  night  and  nearly  all  the 
next  day,  and  when  the  wind  went  down  the  waves 
still  continued  to  run  high.  A  dozen  times  that  night 
Wilson  went  below  to  minister  to  Phang's  comfort, 
with  the  unavowed  hope  of  meeting  the  girl-wife 
again,  and  finding  out  what  her  enigmatic,  arresting 
look  really  meant;  but  she  kept  to  her  own  room. 

Next  day  Phang  was  worse,  and  Wilson  had  to 
persuade  him  to  see  the  doctor.  When  he  returned 
with  the  surgeon  his  heart  stopped;  for  the  girl 
was  kneeling  by  Phang's  head.  A  word  from  her 
husband  and  she  kept  her  place,  though  she  had 
already  risen  to  go.  The  surgeon  made  a  careful 
cursory  examination,  and  promised  to  send  some 
medicine  with  directions.  While  this  was  going  on 
Wilson,  standing  behind  him,  had  ample  time  to 
study  the  girl  without  being  seen  by  the  husband. 
246 


Within  the  Shadow 

Her  face  was  the  rather  long  oval  that  the  Chinese 
admire  and  regard  as  a  mark  of  distinction;  the  hair 
and  eyebrows  were  the  purple-black  of  her  race; 
the  eyes  were  long  and  large;  in  color  the  clear 
brown  of  the  coffee  bean,  and  this,  with  the  dark 
pupil,  gave  them,  Wilson  decided,  the  peculiar  in- 
tense expression  which  had  such  an  effect  on  him. 
In  figure  she  was  very  slight,  and  evidently  still  im- 
mature. Did  she  notice  his  intent  scrutiny?  he  asked 
himself.  She  kept  looking  from  Phang  to  the  doctor 
as  if  no  one  else  were  in  the  room,  and  yet,  surely, 
she  must  have  felt  Wilson's  mute  admiration.  As 
the  doctor,  who  had  been  his  screen,  moved,  Wilson 
dropped  his  eyes  and  turned  with  him  to  the  door, 
first  casting  a  careless  look  round  the  room,  as  if 
the  proceedings  had  rather  bored  him. 

All  through  Phang's  illness,  which  lasted  three  or 
four  days,  he  was  in  and  out  of  the  sick  room,  for 
he  was  the  only  officer  on  board  who  understood 
Chinese,  and  the  captain  and  doctor  had  to  use  him 
as  interpreter.  Perhaps  because  of  the  services  he 
rendered  Phang,  he  got  to  like  him,  as  we  usually 
like  those  we  help.  He  admired,  too,  the  ex- 
traordinary self-control  and  secretiveness  of  the  old 
Mandarin.  And  one  day,  when  the  doctor  said  half 
a  day  in  the  open  air  would  cure  him,  Wilson  sent 

247 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

the  doctor  up  to  prepare  the  couch  near  the  coop, 
and  then  took  the  old  man  in  his  arms  like  a  child 
and  carried  him  up  and  laid  him  on  the  sofa. 
Phang's  hard  features  relaxed  into  a  sort  of  smile 
as  he  said:  "The  thanks  of  the  weak  to  the  strong!'' 
After  this  the  pair  had  several  talks,  and  Wil- 
son confessed  his  desire  to  understand  Chinese  ways 
and  modes  of  thought.  Phang  told  him  that  he 
would  feel  honored  to  show  him  his  humble  dwell- 
ing. As  it  drew  toward  evening  Phang  felt  the  cold 
and  Wilson  volunteered  to  run  down  and  fetch  him 
a  wrap.  He  opened  the  stateroom  door,  turned  to 
the  left  into  Phang's  bedroom,  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  girl.  Their  eyes  met,  and  in- 
voluntarily he  held  out  his  hands.  With  a  little  cry 
she  came  to  him,  and  as  he  took  her  lips,  conscious 
life  passed  into  intense  feeling.  A  moment  later,  it 
seemed,  she  shrank  back  listening,  with  finger  on 
lips,  and  then  turned  her  back  to  the  young  man  and 
busied  herself  in  setting  the  bed  to  rights.  Wilson 
asked  for  a  wrap,  and  murmuring  an  excuse,  as  if 
she  had  just  become  aware  of  his  presence,  she  laid 
a  quilted  silk  garment  on  the  chair  near  him.  As 
Wilson  took  it  and  moved  to  the  door,  the  secre- 
tary came  in  smiling.  Had  he  seen  or  heard  any- 
248 


Within  the  Shadow 

thing?  Or  had  the  girl  been  too  quick  for  him? 
Wilson  couldn't  decide,  and  so  hurried  on  deck. 

Without  further  incident  of  note,  except  some 
long  and  interesting  talks  between  Wilson  and 
Phang,  they  reached  Shanghai.  A  few  days  after 
they  parted,  Phang  sent  his  secretary  to  Wilson  to 
ask  him  to  his  house.  He  found  as  he  expected — a 
palace,  with  a  mean  front  to  the  street,  but  luxuri- 
ous within,  almost  beyond  belief,  and  set  in  a  huge 
garden  with  a  pagoda  at  the  end  furthest  from  the 
house.  From  the  beginning  Wilson  flattered  the  old 
man  assiduously,  which  might  have  given  rise  to 
some  suspicion  had  he  not  at  the  same  time  plied 
him,  Scot-like,  with  innumerable  questions  about  his 
life  and  beliefs,  and  the  hidden  reason  of  ancestor- 
worship,  and  a  score  of  similar  mysteries.  Again 
and  again  he  returned  to  the  house  and  drank  tea 
with  the  old  Mandarin,  and  walked  in  the  garden; 
but  never  cast  eyes,  even  for  a  moment,  on  the  girl- 
wife,  and,  of  course,  never  asked  after  her. 

Two  or  three  days  had  elapsed  since  his  last 
visit,  when,  one  evening,  in  his  English  hotel,  a  let- 
ter was  brought  to  him  by  the  waiter;  in  it  was  a 
strip  of  rice  paper  with  the  words  in  Chinese,  "The 
pagoda  one  hour  after  sunset." 

His  heart  fluttered  into  his  throat  with  excite- 

249 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ment;  he  never  hesitated,  never  doubted;  but  gave 
himself  up  at  once  to  considering  ways  and  means. 
Almost  instinctively,  sailor-like,  he  had  taken  the 
bearings  of  the  house,  and  within  half  an  hour  after 
getting  the  note  he  had  found  the  back  street  and  the 
dead  wall  behind  which  was  level  with  the  roof  of 
the  pagoda.  He  passed  on  his  way,  staring  about 
and  whistling,  as  if  wholly  unconcerned,  for  he  had 
always  in  mind  the  picture  of  her  starting  back,  lis- 
tening intently  with  chin  out-thrust  and  startled  eyes 
and  uplifted  warning  finger. 

As  he  dropped  off  the  wall  that  night  and  stepped 
into  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  pagoda,  a  tiny  hand 
took  his,  and  the  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms. 
Silently  they  crept  into  the  pagoda  hand  in  hand  like 
children.  .  .  . 

Almost  at  once  he  was  struck  by  her  utter  un- 
likeness  to  anyone  he  had  ever  known  or  read  about. 
She  seemed  to  give  herself  to  her  instincts  as  un- 
consciously as  a  healthy  young  animal;  for  some 
time  he  thought  she  was  free  even  of  coquetry. 
When  he  praised  her  beauty,  and  especially  her  eyes, 
she  would  not  have  it;  she  was  not  well-born,  she 
said;  her  feet  were  common  and  her  nails  also; 
Phang,  on  the  other  hand,  was  of  really  high  blood 
250 


Within  the  Shadow 

and  distinguished-looking;  though  he  was  so  old  and 
cruel. 

"I  don't  know  why  he  wanted  me,"  she  said;  "he 
doesn't  any  more.  I  think  he  hates  me.  ...  I  was 
eager  to  love  him  when  he  married  me;  now  I  hate 
him.  He's  cold  like  a  snake  and  one  day  he'll 
sting.   .   .  ." 

All  this  was  said  under  her  breath.  It  was  only 
when  Wilson  insisted  that  she  would  speak  at  all, 
seeming  to  dread  the  slightest  sound.  In  breathless 
whispers,  mouth  to  ear,  she  told  him  that  Phang 
had  gone  for  a  week  to  the  Governor  of  the  Prov- 
ince; but  when  he  joyously  cried:  "Then  there's  no 
danger!" 

"Hush!  Hush!"  she  breathed.  "There's  always 
danger  in  China.  Does  Phang  know  even  now  of 
our  love?  Did  he  invite  you  here  to  make  sure? 
Is  there  one  of  his  spies  on  the  roof  or  under  the 
floor?  Was  I  followed  gliding  through  the  garden, 
or  you  striding  carelessly  along  the  street?  Who 
shall  say?  But  danger,  my  white  savage,"  and  she 
caught  him  to  her  heart,  "there  is  always  danger  in 
China,  always  death  following  close  behind  you — 
and  me,"  and  she  clung  to  him.  "But  after  all,  love, 
with  death  at  the  end,  is  better  than  life  with  that 
old  man.     Oh,  how  fear  quickens  love!"  she  cried, 

251 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  kissed  him  in  a  frenzy  of  passion  as  if  love  alone 
could  banish  the  dread.  .   .  . 

Every  meeting  increased  their  passion,  but  her 
vigilance  didn't  slacken;  and  bit  by  bit  her  fear  and 
desperate  courage  and  sheer  force  of  affection  won 
him  to  deeper  feeling.  But,  Scot-like,  he  wanted  to 
argue: 

"You  talk  of  danger,"  he  began,  "but  Phang 
liked  me,  I  think;  at  any  rate,  he  always  welcomed 
me.  He  wouldn't  have  done  that  if  he  had  sus- 
pected anything?" 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  wailed,  as  if  in  pain.  "You 
don't  understand  us  Chinese.  Phang  will  show  you 
the  same  face  always,  even  the  day  you  perish  by 
his  orders.  His  vengeance  passes  to  its  aim,  and 
makes  no  sign,  like  a  knife  through  water.  He  may 
wait  for  years,  but  he  will  never  forget.  Oh,  be- 
lieve me,  and  take  care  while  it  is  time!" 

"But  you?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I'm  doomed,"  she  replied  carelessly.  "I 
counted  the  cost  and  made  up  my  mind  to  pay  it 
when  your  eyes  first  drew  mine  in  the  cabin;  there 
is  no  chance  of  escape  for  me.  Don't  talk;  what 
does  it  matter!    Already  I  ought  to  be  gone.   .   .  ." 

And  a  little  later,  like  a  wraith,  she  was  gone, 
252 


Within  the  Shadow 

melting  like  a  shadow  into  the  shadows,  "and  leaving 
her  lover  half  afraid — of  he  knew  not  what.  .  .  . 

Every  night  he  took  more  care;  her  assurance  of 
danger  infecting  him,  and  pity  grew  strong  in  him 
as  he  began  to  realize  her  martyr-passion. 

She  found  strange  words  to  convince  him.  "Does 
your  fear  make  you  regret?"  he  asked  once;  she 
laughed  noiselessly. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  regret?"  she  whispered. 
"That  I  shall  never  see  your  white  body,  never  know 
you  exactly,  never  have  a  perfect  image  of  you  to 
console  me  in  the  long  years  when  my  being  is 
melted  into  the  line  of  my  ancestors  and  lost  as 
vapor  in  air.  .  .  .  Last  night  I  wept  all  night  think- 
ing of  it.  .  .  .  You  will  return  to  your  country  and 
some  of  your  own  women  will  strip  you,  laughing, 
and  kiss  your  breast  and  your  great  limbs,  and  know 
every  little  bit  of  you,  better  than  they  know  them- 
selves; but  I  never  shall.  I  touch  you  and  touch; 
and  I  weep  because  my  fingers  are  blind  and  have 
no  sight-joy  in  you." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  all  shaken 
by  the  intensity  of  her  passion. 

•  •••••  • 

One  night  it  rained  heavily  and  Wilson  hurried, 

253 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

threw  himself  over  the  wall,  and  was  first  in  the 
pagoda;  a  minute  later  she  came  and,  divining  his 
presence,  went  straight  to  him  in  the  dark. 

"You  love  me!"  she  cried.  "You  are  early,  but 
you're  wet,"  she  added. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said,  kissing  her,  and  she  gave 
herself  to  his  embrace  with  hot  lips  and  mute  in- 
tensity. "I  would  ravage  you  to-night,"  she  whis- 
pered, touching  him  with  throbbing  silken  fingers. 

When  he  came  to  reflection  it  struck  him  that  she 
was  braver  than  heretofore,  spoke  out  loud,  was  less 
reticent  than  usual;  he  wanted  to  know  the  reason. 

"Phang  comes  back  a  day  sooner  than  he  said," 
she  answered,  and  her  voice  was  grave.  "To-mor- 
row is  our  last  night." 

"Oh,  what  bad  luck!"  he  groaned.  "Damn  him, 
he  might  have  given  us  a  day  more  instead  of  less." 

"You  don't  guess  what  it  means?"  she  asked,  and 
then :  "I'm  sure  Phang  knows  and  did  this  to  pun- 
ish us;  it  is  the  beginning  of  his  revenge." 

"Nonsense,  dear,"  he  cried;  "it  would  be  silly, 
childish." 

"We  are  all  children,"  she  replied  gravely,  "and 
children  can  be  very  cruel." 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  are  bolder  to-night?"  he 
asked. 

254 


Within  the  Shadow 

"Greedy,"  she  replied  simply.  "What  does  it 
matter  now?  Perhaps  in  his  rage  he  will  make  a 
quick  end." 

His  heart  shrank  into  a  tight  knot  with  pain;  but 
his  courage  revolted : 

"If  he  touches  you,"  he  growled,  "I'll  kill  him 
like  a  dog." 

"Oh,  you  child,"  she  exclaimed,  sighing.  "He  will 
strike  so  that  you  will  know  only  what  he  wishes 
you  to  know;  but  don't  let  us  waste  the  precious 
minutes;  don't  rob  me  of  my  joy,"  and  she  nestled 
back  in  his  arms  with  a  sigh.   .  .  . 

Next  night  he  came  to  her  and  said:  "To-day, 
as  I  was  walking  along  the  street  that  leads  from 
our  church  to  the  water,  a  huge  stone  fell  from  a 
roof  and  almost  crushed  me.  What  luck  it  didn't, 
eh?  Or  I  should  not  be  here  to  hold  you  and  kiss 
you." 

She  fell  from  him  as  if  she  were  broken,  and  in 
the  dusk  he  could  see  her  eyes  white  with  fear.  He 
lifted  her  to  him  and  she  moaned: 

"Oh,  I  was  sure!  Oh,  take  care,  take  care;  I'm 
sure,  sure." 

"Sure  of  what?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,"  she  said,  "that  Phang  knows  and  will 
revenge  himself.    He  is  learned  among  the  learned, 

25S 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  rich  besides,  and  riches  can  do  anything  in 
China.  Oh,  take  care!"  and  she  threw  her  arms 
about  him  and  strained  him  to  her  breast  as  if  to 
convince  herself  by  touch  that  she  held  him  and  he 
was  safe. 

"Take  care  or  he  will  have  you  killed,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Killed  as  if  by  accident,  and  no  one  will 
ever  know  the  truth,  and  your  spirit  will  not  be  able 
even  to  hope  that  your  murderer  will  be  punished. 
.  .  .  Take  care  of  what  you  eat  and  what  you  drink. 
Take  care  of  your  steps  on  the  quayside  and  your 
shadow  on  the  wall.  Take  care  when  you  go  to 
bed  and  when  you  get  up.  Ah !  If  you  should  die, 
I'd  hate  myself  forever.   .  .  ." 

"Don't  fear  for  me,"  he  cried,  "or  for  yourself; 
I  have  prospered  and  I  can  take  you  with  me.  I 
will  not  leave  you  to  danger.   .   .   ." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  she  triumphed.  "I  love 
to  hear  you  say  it,  though  it  can  never  be.  It  joys 
me  to  hear  you." 

"But  why  can't  you  come?"  he  continued,  getting 
more  resolved,  man-like,  as  he  felt  himself  more 
likely  to  lose  her. 

"Can  you  pluck  a  flower  and  plant  it  in  the  ground 
and  think  it'll  grow?"  she  asked.  "No,  no,  you 
savage  man !  we  have  had  our  week  of  love,  a  pearl- 
256 


Within  the  Shadow 

week,  perfect,  and  I  shall  go  to  death  thinking  you 
wanted  me  for  always,  my  white  god!  You  would 
have  taken  me  with  you  if  you  could,  and  I  shall 
be  happy  in  death  thinking  of  that,  and  the  cold  of 
the  grave  will  not  chill  me.  .  .  ." 

That  night  they  were  late,  for  he  couldn't  bear  to 
let  her  go,  and  she  seemed  willing  to  stay,  eager  to 
do  his  pleasure  in  every  way.  Later  it  filled  him  to 
the  lips  with  misery  to  think  of  how  she  yielded  to 
his  every  wish  at  once  without  sign  of  fear. 

Again  and  again  they  embraced,  and  she  said: 
"Do  not  come  till  you  hear  from  me.  If  indeed  by 
a  miracle  we  have  escaped,  it  must  be  months  be- 
fore you  visit  Phang  again,  and  when  it  is  wise  I 
will  send  you  word;  but  I  feel  sure  to-night  is  the 
end  of  our  joy.  Never  mind.  You  have  made  me 
so  happy  that  I  do  not  care  what  comes  now." 

And  he  said:  "I  go  across  the  sea  again,  and  as 
soon  as  the  ship  returns  I  will  visit  Phang." 

At  the  door  she  held  his  face  long  in  her  hands, 
perusing  it  in  the  half-light,  feature  by  feature,  and 
of  a  sudden  was  gone. 

Next  morning  Wilson  went  aboard  cheerfully 
enough;  he  had  had  a  great  holiday,  he  thought;  the 
future  seemed  bright  and  his  sailor-work  pleased 
him.     Hoasen's  forebodings  were  mere  girlish  ex- 

257 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

travagance.  For  some  days  he  was  too  busy  to  give 
thought  to  anything  outside  his  duties.  Now  and 
then  doubts  flashed  across  his  mind,  but  he  brushed 
them  aside.  Once  on  the  high  seas  again,  his  mind 
swung  back  of  its  own  account  to  his  experiences  in 
the  pagoda,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  scene 
after  scene  stood  out  clearer  in  memory  and  more 
significant  than  it  had  appeared  at  the  time;  touches 
he  had  forgotten  came  back — words,  looks,  kisses. 
.  .  .  He  could  discover  no  reason  for  it,  no  expla- 
nation. Day  by  day,  too,  he  became  more  surely 
aware  that  her  fears  had  some  foundation;  certain 
of  her  phrases  set  him  a-shiver,  heart-sick  with  fear. 
And  all  the  while,  hour  by  hour,  his  passion  for  her 
grew;  so  delicate  of  body  she  was,  and  so  brave,  so 
passionate  that  she  stayed  late  that  last  night, 
though  sure  of  death,  to  amaze  him  with  her  deli- 
cate caresses. 

Before  he  reached  Hong  Kong  he  knew  that  his 
proposal  to  take  her  away  with  him  and  marry  her, 
which  he  had  thrown  out  without  reflection,  just  to 
please  her,  was  the  outcome  of  his  deepest  nature. 
The  conviction  held  him;  he  should  have  taken  her 
with  him  that  very  night  and  brought  her  on  board 
the  Amazon.  He  was  independent,  had  money — all 
at  once  he  felt  he  had  made  a  hideous  blunder. 
258 


Within  the  Shadow 

As  soon  as  he  got  off  duty  at  Hong  Kong  he 
sought  out  Chinese  merchants  and  put  supposititious 
cases,  but  could  extract  nothing  from  them — a  pretty 
girl,  more  or  less — their  long  eyes  grew  narrower 
in  amusement.  He  frequented  the  club  and  found 
that  those  who  knew  China  best  were  inclined  to  the 
belief  that  Hoasen's  fears  were  justified — "A  Man- 
darin of  the  first  rank  could  do  whatever  he  pleased 
with  an  unfaithful  wife."  The  heartache  in  him 
grew  desperate. 

Even  Captain  Malcolm  soon  remarked  his  un- 
easiness; the  younger  officers  tried  to  joke  him  about 
it,  for  Wilson  was  a  favorite;  but  he  minded  noth- 
ing, literally  the  deck  burned  him  till  he  got  the  or- 
der to  "let  go  1" 

As  soon  as  he  reached  Shanghai  he  begged  for 
leave,  and  went  straight  to  Phang's  house.  If  he 
had  thought  of  danger  it  would  have  stilled  his  pain 
to  affront  it,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  went  in  irre- 
sistible impulse  without  thought.  The  old  Man- 
darin received  him  cordially;  inquired  after  his 
health,  his  fortune,  wished  him  all  good  things 
with  suave  politeness,  and  Wilson,  restless,  nervous, 
dared  not  put  the  question  that  trembled  on  his  lips. 
He  felt  like  a  bull  tied  to  a  stake  and  baited;  his 
blood  boiled  in  him ;  yet  he  could  do  nothing,  noth- 

259 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ing;  could  frame  no  word  that  might  not  do  harm, 
and  now  he  knew  that  he  was  being  played  with; 
that  Hoasen  was  right,  that  this  old  withered 
creature  was  enjoying  his  embarrassment,  savoring 
his  own  vengeance.  If  only  he  had  the  proof.  He 
looked  down  at  him,  and  the  muscles  on  his  arms 
and  chest  grew  taut  as  whipcord — he  would  strangle 
him  where  he  stood.  Those  impenetrable  stony 
eyes  (snake's  eyes,  he  thought  savagely)  met  his 
placidly,  and  the  wrinkled  yellow  face  smiled  and 
Phang  continued  his  courteous  phrases  while  accom- 
panying his  visitor  to  the  very  door.  There  he 
paused  and  his  smile  became  pensive: 

"I  have  had  a  great  loss  since  I  saw  you  last,"  he 
remarked  casually.  "My  wife,  whom  you  may  re- 
member on  the  steamer — I  was  absent  a  week 
nearly — she  must  have  caught  a  chill,  for  when  I  re- 
turned she  became  ill"  (and  his  eyelids  fluttered  re- 
flectively)  "and  died." 

"Died!"  Wilson  repeated,  choking.     "Died!" 

The  old  Chinaman  blinked  his  eyes  several  times 
as  if  in  tender  regret,  and  then,  cordially:  "But 
you  will  come  again  and  give  the  old  man  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  youth,  and  health,  and " 

Wilson  was  in  the  street  dazed.  Dead,  his  love 
dead.  He  tore  his  collar  loose  and  hurried  to  the 
260 


Within  the  Shadow 

hotel  and  shut  himself  in  his  room.  Dead!  How? 
The  old  snake!  Why  hadn't  he  trodden  on  his 
head!  He  couldn't  believe  it.  How  to  make  sure? 
Who  could  help  him? 

At  some  time  or  other  he  had  heard,  as  every- 
one in  Shanghai  has  heard,  of  Shimonski,  the  Polish 
interpreter,  who  was  practically  a  Chinky  himself 
and  knew  China  as  he  knew  his  pocket.  The  very 
man !  If  anyone  could  solve  the  riddle,  Shimonski 
could. 

Wilson  sought  him  out,  and  after  some  hours 
ran  him  to  earth  and  got  speech  of  him.  He  was 
in  such  deadly  earnest,  obsessed  by  such  passion, 
that  Shimonski  listened  to  his  story  and  then,  rub- 
bing the  short  red  bristles  of  his  unshaven  chin,  he 
remarked  coolly: 

"I've  heard  something  about  this  .  .  .  Hoasen, 
you  say  her  name  was  .  .  .  I've  heard  of  her. 
There  was  something  peculiar — I  can't  remember 
what.  But  I'll  find  out  exactly  and  let  you  know 
in  a  day  or  two.  You  don't  mind  spending  a  little 
money?    No.    All  right.    You  shall  hear." 

Three  days  later  he  came  to  Wilson. 

"I  know  everything,"  he  began.  "There  was  no 
trouble  about  it.     Phang's  secretary  is  a  scholar;  I 

261 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

am  a  scholar;  for  four  pounds  he  told  me  every- 
thing. .  .  . 

"Your  Hoasen  was  called  'The  Flower  of  the 
Waters,'  probably  because  she  was  pretty  and  very 
slight — the  Chinese  prefer  fruit  that  is  not  quite 
ripe.  .  .  .  Phang  found  out  your  intrigue  himself 
when  he  was  ill  on  board  your  ship." 

"But  there  was  nothing  to  find  out  then,"  inter- 
rupted WilsOn.     "Nothing." 

"Yes,  there  was,"  Shimonski  persisted.  "Phang 
saw  you  staring  at  her.  There  was  a  mirror  in  front 
of  his  bed  in  which  he  could  see  you,  and  he  saw, 
too,  that  Hoasen  was  conscious  of  your  admiration, 
that  is,  had  already  accepted  it  in  her  heart.  (The 
Chinese  never  deceive  themselves  about  facts;  that's 
their  strong  point.)  He  had  to  go  away,  but  he 
seized  the  occasion  to  have  Hoasen  watched.  Every- 
thing said  and  done  in  the  pagoda  was  reported  to 
him.  Why,  once  when  you  swung  yourself  over  the 
wall,  you  almost  fell  upon  the  secretary;  he  chuckled 
over  it  to  me! 

"When  Phang  returned  he  greeted  Hoasen  and 

a  little  later  went  to  the  Chief  Judge,  a  friend  of 

his.     But  as  he  wanted  the  guilty  punished  in  the 

way  of  his  own  Southern  Province,  he  must  have 

262 


Within  the  Shadow 

prepared  it  all,  even  before  he  went  away  for  that 
week." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Wilson.  "Are  these 
people  human?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Shimonski,  "but  they  are  cruel, 
too;  indeed,  they  take  a  sensuous  pleasure  in  refined 
cruelty. 

"Before  I  tell  you  the  story  you  must  know  that 
Phang  has  gone  into  the  interior  and  is  now  be- 
yond your  reach.  .   .  . 

"Well,  to  resume :  He  returned  and  told  Hoasen 
that  Hoan,  the  magistrate,  wanted  to  see  her,  and 
if  she  wished  he  would  accompany  her  to  his  court. 
The  girl  no  doubt  guessed  what  that  meant.  Phang 
had  the  state  palanquin  out;  the  girl-wife  dressed 
herself  in  her  best,  and  they  went  off  to  the  court; 
but,  as  she  crossed  the  threshold,  Phang  turned 
quietly  home. 

"Hoasen  got  out  of  the  palanquin  and  found  her- 
self face  to  face  with  Hoan;  nobody  else  in  the 
courtyard  but  a  huge  elephant  in  one  corner  with 
his  two  attendants  and  a  block  of  stone.  Hoan  told 
her  that  her  husband  accused  her  of  adultery  and 
had  given  proofs.  Because  her  ancestors  were 
known  to  him  he  had  sent  his  officials  away,  trusting 

263 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

that  force  would  be  unnecessary,  and  being  very  de- 
sirous of  sparing  her  the  shame  of  open  accusation. 

"Having  said  this,  he  held  out  his  hand;  she  took 
it  and  he  led  her  toward  the  elephant.  As  they  drew 
near,  one  of  the  attendants  came  toward  them  car- 
rying the  block  of  stone.  Hoan  left  her  and  walked 
out  of  the  courtyard. 

"The  attendant  put  the  block  of  stone  before 
Hoasen  and  begged  her  to  lie  down  and  put  her 
head  on  it.  Without  a  word,  she  did  as  she  was 
told,  and  as  he  squatted  in  front  of  her  his  com- 
panion came  toward  them  with  the  elephant.  When 
the  great  beast  was  quite  close,  his  attendant  began 
teasing  his  front  leg  with  a  little  switch.  At  first 
the  elephant  seemed  unwilling  to  do  what  was  re- 
quired of  him.  He  shifted  his  weight  from  one 
foot  to  the  other  uneasily,  but  after  a  tap  or  two  he 
lifted  his  right  foot  and  put  it  down  quietly  on  the 
girl's  head,  which  squelched  like  a  ripe  mango." 


264 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

CHARACTERS 

Lady  Betty  Morrison 

A  pretty  woman  of  about  thirty. 
Antoinette 

Her  maid,  a  French  girl  of  about  twenty. 
Sir  John  Morrison 

An  Englishman  of  about  fifty,  inclined  to  be 
stout,  healthy  looking,  well-dressed. 
Jeanne 

A  stout  peasant  woman  of  about  forty,   the 
Cure's  servant. 
William 

A  chauffeur. 

A  pleasant  villa  on  Cimiez  looking  down  on  Nice. 

Lady  Betty.    Does  this  hat  suit  me,  Antoinette? 
Antoinette.    Oh,  perfect,  milady;  milady  is  beau- 
tiful in  it,  and  the  rose,  she  sets  off  milady's  pallor. 

267 


,The  Veils  of  Isis 

Lady  Betty  [studying  herself  in  the  glass].  It 
seems  to  me  a  little  too  large. 

Antoinette.  Oh,  no,  milady.  Milady's  height 
carries  it  off;  it  is  a  picture. 

Lady  Betty.  We  are  going  to  lunch  in  Monte 
Carlo  and  shall  certainly  not  be  back  before  dinner. 
You  can  have  the  whole  day  to  yourself,  Antoinette, 
till  seven  o'clock. 

Antoinette.  Oh,  thank  you,  milady.  I  was  going 
to  ask  milady  something.  My  sister  she  has  a  child, 
a  new-born  child,  and  I  wanted  to  go  and  see  her. 

Lady  Betty.  Oh,  of  course,  do  you  want  more 
than  a  day? 

Antoinette.  Oh,  no,  milady,  she  lives  at  Esca- 
rene,  about  four  leagues  up  in  the  mountains.  It  is 
her  first  child. 

Lady  Betty.  Oh,  how  interesting!  What  a  lucky 
woman!     How  I  should  like  to  see  it. 

Antoinette.  Lucky,  I  don't  know.  Her  husband 
is  only  a  garde  champetre.  They  are  poor.  A  child 
— that  costs  money — and  it  takes  away  from  the 
work. 

Lady  Betty.  What  matter,  what  matter !  I  would 
give  anything  for  a  child,  anything  in  the  world! 
Oh,  I  must  see  it.    When  can  I  see  it? 

Antoinette.  Milady  could  drive  to  Escarene  one 
268 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

day.  But  it  is  only  a  village  lost  among  the  moun- 
tains. The  road  goes  up  and  up  all  the  way  follow- 
ing the  river,  the  Paillon. 

Lady  Betty.  But  how  will  you  get  there  and 
back?  You  cannot  go  twelve  miles  and  back  in  an 
afternoon.  I'll  give  orders  for  you  to  take  the 
small  car :  John  will  drive  you.  You  shall  visit  your 
sister  in  state,  and  tell  her  from  me  that  I  will  come 
and  see  the  baby  one  day,  if  she  will  let  me.  Is  it 
a  boy  or  a  girl? 

Antoinette.    A  boy,  milady. 

Lady  Betty.  Oh,  lucky  woman.  What  luck !  Ah  1 
to  have  a  boy;  her  first  child  a  boy,  what  luckl 

Antoinette.  The  poor — they  have  too  much  of 
such  luck,  milady. 

Lady  Betty.  And  the  rich  too  little.  Ah! 
[Sighs']. 

[She  begins  putting  on  her  gloves  and  Antoinette 
tidies  up  the  things. ~\ 

Antoinette.  I  thank  milady  for  the  automobile. 
All  Escarene  will  stare  at  me. 

Lady  Betty.  What  age  is  your  sister?  I  thought 
you  told  me  once  that  she  was  thirty,  as  old  as  I 
am? 

Antoinette.  Oh,  milady,  she  is  older  than  you, 
and  she  looks  ten  years  older.     Poverty  ages. 

269 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Lady  Betty.  And  she  has  not  been  married  a 
year  yet? 

Antoinette.    Oh,  no,  milady,  not  quite  a  year  yet. 

Lady  Betty.  What  luck,  what  wonderful  luck. 
Tell  her  I  will  come  and  see  her  son.  [Sweeps  out 
of  the  room.] 

Lady  Betty  [dressing  for  dinner].  Did  you  see 
your  sister,  Antoinette? 

Antoinette.  Oh,  yes,  milady,  thanks  to  milady's 
kindness,  I  had  three  hours  at  Escarene — I  saw  my 
mother,  too. 

Lady  Betty.    Is  the  boy  healthy? 

Antoinette.    Oh,  it  is  a  great  fat  baby. 

Lady  Betty.    And  your  sister,  is  she  in  bed  still? 

Antoinette.  Oh,  no,  milady,  it  is  a  week  ago,  and 
she  is  up  and  working.  She  could  not  stay  in  bed. 
Who  would  do  the  work? 

Lady  Betty.    And  well  again? 

Antoinette.  She  looks  a  little  pale,  but  she  is 
quite  well.  She  will  soon  get  strong  again  in  that 
air. 

Lady  Betty.  Did  you  say  that  one  day  we  shall 
go  up  and  see  the  boy?     [Rises.] 

Antoinette.  She  will  be  very  pleased  and  proud, 
milady — I  have  something  to  say  to  milady,  if  she 
270 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

really  goes  to  Escarene.  Milady  says  she  wants  to 
have  a  child.    There  is  a  way,  I  think. 

Lady  Betty  [pauses].  A  way?  What  do  you 
mean?  Of  course  I  want  a  child.  Sir  John  wants  a 
boy  to  inherit  all  the  money  and  the  estate,  and  I 
have  no  child  and  we  have  been  married  five  years. 
What  way  do  you  mean? 

Antoinette.  When  I  was  at  Escarene,  I  had  three 
hours  there,  so  I  went  to  see  my  mother,  also,  and 
I  spoke  to  her  of  milady,  how  kind  milady  was  and 
how  milady  wants  a  child.  And  my  mother  says  all 
she  must  do  is  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Monas- 
tery of  La  Madonna,  la  Bona  Dea,  the  country  peo- 
ple call  her  beyond  Sospel. 

Lady  Betty.    What  do  you  mean,  Antoinette? 

Antoinette.  My  mother,  she  tell  me  all  about  it, 
milady.  When  a  woman  of  the  country  not  have  a 
child,  she  go  to  the  Monastery  away  up  in  the  moun- 
tain beyond  Sospel  and  there  she  walk  seven  times 
round  the  Church,  praying  at  all  the  shrines,  and 
each  time  she  say  the  Ave  Maria,  to  the  Holy 
Mother,  and  then  she  get  a  child,  sure,  sure ! 

Lady  Betty.  Really.  It  is  all  superstition,  I'm 
afraid.     But  we  might  go  one  day. 

Antoinette.     Surely  if  milady  wishes,   we  could 

271 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

go.     And  it  is  true.     My  mother  she  know  many 
cases,  she  say,  and  all  get  child  after  one  visit. 

Lady  Betty  [in  a  depressed  voice'].  But  I'm  not 
a  Catholic,  Antoinette. 

Antoinette.  Oh,  that  make  no  difference,  milady; 
believe  or  not  believe,  it  make  no  difference. 

Lady  Betty.  But  tell  me  what  one  is  to  do? 
Nothing  but  go  seven  times  round  the  Church  and 
pray  once  at  every  shrine  and  say  an  Ave  Maria 
before  the  Madonna? 

Antoinette.  Yes,  milady,  and  then  you  must  go  to 
the  sacristy  and  confess  to  one  of  the  monks,  who 
will  give  you  absolution  for  everything,  and  then 
you  come  out  and  go  home  and  you  are  sure  of  a 
child.     Sure,  sure,  my  mother  says.     It  never  fails. 

Lady  Betty.  You  say  the  Monastery  is  beyond 
Sospel.    Sospel  is  past  Mentone,  isn't  it? 

Antoinette.  Yes,  milady  would  have  to  start 
early. 

Lady  Betty.  You  would  have  to  come  with  me, 
Antoinette,  I  could  never  go  alone.  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  ask  Sir  John. 

Antoinette.    I  would  not  tell  Sir  John,  if  I  were 
milady.     It  is  better  a  woman  keep  all  those  things 
to  herself.    Tell  the  men  nothing,  or  they'll  know  as 
much  as  we  do  in  the  end. 
272 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

Lady  Betty  [clasping  a  bracelet].  Yes,  perhaps 
you're  right.  I  don't  think  it's  necessary  to  say 
anything.  We  might  get  away  next  Thursday. 
Sir  John  is  going  to  the  pigeon-shooting  match.  I 
would  not  go  with  him  for  anything.  How  men  can 
see  poor  little  birds  rise  from  a  trap  and  shoot  them 
down  I  cannot  imagine.  It  is  horrible.  That  is 
why  I  will  not  stay  in  Monte  Carlo.  I  cannot  bear 
even  to  hear  the  bang,  bang,  bang  of  the  guns. 

Antoinette.  Milady  is  so  kind.  When  she  have 
a  child  she  will  pet  it  all  day  long. 

Lady  Betty  [clasping  her  hands].  Oh,  do  you 
think  I  shall,  do  you  really  think  I  shall?  It  would 
be  too  wonderful.    I  shall  be  so  happy ! 

[Sir  John  Morrison  on  the  point  of  leaving  the 
breakfast-room.'] 

Sir  John.  I'll  take  the  little  Peugeot,  then.  It'll 
run  me  over  to  Monte  in  half  an  hour,  and  I'll  leave 
you  the  big  car  and  William.  He  will  take  you  any- 
where you  want  to  go.  I  suppose  you'll  go  visiting 
or  something? 

Lady  Betty  [a  little  nervously].  Yes,  I'll  pay 
visits,  I  think. 

Sir  John.  You  see,  I  cannot  help  going.  Hugh 
Harrison  is  to  shoot.     I've  known  him  a  long  time, 

273 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  he's  pretty  useful  with  a  gun.  I'd  like  to  see 
him  win  the  Grand  Prix. 

Lady  Betty.  If  he  has  only  gamekeepers  against 
him,  as  you  say,  he's  sure  to  win:  isn't  he? 

Sir  John.  Most  of  the  Italians  are  gamekeepers, 
I  believe,  and  they  practice  night  and  day.  The 
English  aren't  used  to  this  confounded  glare.  The 
Italians  have  won  seven  times  in  the  last  ten  years. 
They  are  sure  to  beat  us  in  the  long  run.  You  see, 
we  are  only  amateurs,  and  they  are  professionals. 
That's  why  we  English  are  getting  beaten  in  every- 
thing: We're  only  amateurs.  As  long  as  it  was  a 
fight  between  amateurs  we  beat  the  world,  but  since 
these  Italian  chaps  have  made  shooting  a  business 
they  beat  us. 

Lady  Betty.    You're  not  going  to  shoot,  are  you? 

Sir  John.  No,  I  should  have  no  earthly  chance. 
I  was  runner-up  in  the  Poule  d'Essai,  but  that  was 
more  good  luck  than  anything  else. 

Lady  Betty.  I'm  sure  you're  as  good  a  shot  as 
any  of  them.  Bring  Harrison  to  dinner  if  you  can. 
I  should  like  to  hear  who  wins  to-day. 

Sir  John  [preparing  to  go  out].  I  will.  But  I'll 
not  be  back  before  six.  I  could  be  back  to  tea  if 
you  liked? 

Lady  Betty.  Oh,  no,  don't  trouble,  you  know 
274 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

you  don't  care  for  tea.  I  may  have  tea  out  some- 
where. I  intend  to  have  the  whole  afternoon  to 
myself.  So  you  need  not  be  back  before  eight,  till 
dinner-time,  in  fact.     [Sir  John  kisses  her.~] 

Sir  John.     I'll  be  back  before  eight,  good-bye. 

Lady  Betty  [hesitating].  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to 
go.  My  heart's  beating:  I  am  quite  excited.  I 
suppose  I  had  better  ring  for  Antoinette,  and  start 
almost  immediately.  There  goes  the  Peugeot  and 
John.  I  wonder  if  it  is  wrong.  I'll  ring  for  An- 
toinette. 

[In  a  moment  Antoinette  comes  into  the  room 
dressed  to  go  out.~\ 

Oh,  you  are  ready,  Antoinette. 

Antoinette.  Quite  ready,  milady,  and  William's 
ready,  too.  I  told  him  to  be  prepared  to  go  a  long 
distance.  If  monsieur  have  gone  by  the  lower  road 
to  Monte  Carlo  we  ought  to  go  by  the  Grand  Cor- 
niche  to  Mentone,  and  so  avoid  Monte  Carlo.  Shall 
I  bring  milady  her  hat  down  here? 

Lady  Betty.  Are  you  sure  you  know  just  what  I 
ought  to  do?  Even  then  I  don't  believe  anything'll 
come  of  it.  .   .  . 

Antoinette.  Oh,  yes,  something'll  come,  I  feel 
it.    I  know  all  zere  is  to  do.     Milady  need  have  no 

275 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

fear  at  all,  the  monks  are  very  nice  men,  and  I'll 
go  round  the  Church  with  milady. 

Lady  Betty  [given  over  to  her  thoughts'].  Hurry, 
then,  Antoinette.  Bring  me  my  things,  and  we'll 
start. 

[Two  hours  later,  a  small  country  inn  in  the  moun- 
tains.] 

Lady  Betty.  But,  Antoinette,  this  is  not  a  Church 
or  a  Monastery;  this  is  an  Inn. 

Antoinette.  The  Church,  milady,  is  just  round 
the  corner.  If  milady  will  get  out  here  and  just  go 
into  a  room  for  a  few  minutes,  I  will  go  and  find 
out  everything,  and  then  I'll  come  back  for  milady. 
[Lady  Betty  leaves  the  auto,  and  goes  to  a  room  as 
the  maid  requests.    Alone  she  gets  nervous.] 

Lady  Betty  [thinking].  I  do  hope  it's  all  right.  I 
know  Sir  John  wants  a  boy  more  than  anything,  and 
so  do  I.  Now  I'm  here  I  might  as  well  go  through 
with  it.  It  would  be  too  childish  to  turn  back.  It 
cannot  do  any  harm  to  pray  in  a  Catholic  Church. 

Antoinette  [coming  in].  Oh,  milady,  I  have  bad 
news.  The  monastery  has  been  what  you  call  dis- 
established; the  monks  they  have  all  gone  away. 
Un  grand  malheur!  We  have  our  journey  for 
nothing. 

Lady  Betty.    But  the  Church  is  there,  Antoinette. 
276 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

Antoinette.  Oh,  yes,  milady,  the  Church  is  there, 
but  the  monks  have  gone  and  the  confess  in  the 
sacristy  is  impossible. 

Lady  Betty.  What  does  that  matter,  we  can  go 
round  the  Church  and  pray  at  the  shrines. 

Antoinette.  Oh,  yes,  milady  [staring],  we  can 
do  that,  but  the  monks  have  gone;  the  miracles 
have  all  ceased! 

Lady  Betty.  Now  I  have  come,  Antoinette,  I 
think  I'll  go  to  the  Church  and  pray. 

Antoinette.  As  milady  wishes,  but  I  will  go  and 
see  to  whom  milady  can  confess. 

Lady  Betty.  You  must  come  with  me  to  the 
Church. 

Antoinette.  Oh,  I  will  go  to  the  Church  with 
milady,  and  then  I  will  leave  milady  and  go  and  see 
if  there  is  a  Cure :  milady  must  confess  to  some  one. 
[They  go  together  to  the  Church.  Antoinette  takes 
Lady  Betty  in  and  points  out  to  her  the  three  chapels 
in  all  of  which  she  must  pray,  and  the  High  Altar  at 
which  she  must  say  an  Ave  Maria,  then  she  whispers 
to  Lady  Betty. ~\ 

I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour. 
[In  half  an  hour  Lady  Betty  comes  out  of  the 
Church  and  meets  Antoinette,  who  has  brought  the 

277 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

auto  to  the  door  of  the  Church.    Lady  Betty  is  a 
little  rapt.] 

Antoinette.  The  Cure,  milady,  lives  a  mile  away. 
I  thought  milady  had  better  go  in  the  automobile, 
but  milady  must  go  alone.  My  mother  she  says  the 
lady  must  go  alone  to  the  monks  to  confess,  or  else 
there  will  be  no  miracle.  So  I  wait  here  for  milady. 
•  •••••• 

[Lady  Betty  gets  into  the  automobile  and  is  whirled 
away.] 

William  [at  the  door  of  the  auto].  This  is  the 
Parson's  house,  my  lady  [pointing  to  the  door  of  a 
small  house  in  the  middle  of  a  garden], 
[Lady  Betty  gets  out  and  goes  up  to  the  door.  Wil- 
liam drives  the  car  past  the  house  in  order  to  turn 
round.  Lady  Betty  knocks.  Jeanne  comes  to  the 
door.] 

Lady  Betty.    Is  the  Cure  in? 

Jeanne  [impressed  in  spite  of  herself  by  Lady 
Betty's  dress  and  the  automobile].  No,  Madame. 
He  is  not  in.    He  will  be  in  in  half  an  hour. 

Lady  Betty  [taking  out  her  purse  and  selecting  a 
louis,  which  she  hands  to  the  woman,  who  stares  at 
her  in  amazement].  I  want  to  see  him;  may  I  come 
in? 

Jeanne.     Certainly,  if  Madame  pleases. 
278 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

[They  enter  the  house  together. .] 

Lady  Betty.  I  would  not  have  come  but  the  mon- 
astery is  closed,  and  I  have  prayed  in  the  Church. 

Jeanne  [in  the  middle  of  the  room'].  Oh,  Mad- 
ame is  one  of  those? 

Lady  Betty  [smiles  affably].  I  have  been  married 
some  time  and  have  no  child,  and  my  maid  An- 
toinette, who  is  half  Italian  and  half  French,  told 
me  that  if  I  made  a  pilgrimage  here  and  prayed 
round  the  Church  seven  times  I  should  get  a  child, 
and  so  I  came  here — will  the  miracle  take  place,  do 
you  think? 

Jeanne  [disdainfully].  But,  my  good  lady,  those 
games  are  all  over  now.  The  monastery  was  shut 
last  summer.  The  monks  were  all  turned  out. 
There  are  no  more  miracles  now.  There  is  no  one 
in  the  monastery,  but  a  couple  of  sisters  from  Nice, 
so  you  can  guess  there  are  no  miracles  with  them. 

Lady  Betty  [vaguely  annoyed  by  the  familiarity 
of  the  woman,  and  only  half  understanding  her 
patois].  Of  course,  I  know,  being  a  Protestant,  it 
may  be  difficult  for  me.  But  I  have  prayed  at  all  the 
shrines,  and  before  the  Madonna,  and  I  went  seven 
times  round  the  Church,  and  Antoinette  said  that  if 
I  saw  the  Cure  and  confessed  to  him  it  would  be  all 
the  same  as  confessing  to  one  of  the  monks. 

279 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Jeanne  [loudly"}.  What  impudence!  I  should 
like  to  see  that  Antoinette.  She  must  have  impu- 
dence, that  girl;  let  her  come  and  talk  with  me — 
I'll  teach  her. 

Lady  Betty.  I  don't  understand  you.  Why 
should  you  get  angry?  Doesn't  the  Cure  hear  con- 
fessions, or  do  you  think  because  I'm  not  a  Catholic 
I  have  no  right  to  confess? 

Jeanne  [sulkily,  yet  still  impressed  by  the  visitor's 
calm  politeness'].  M.  the  Cure  hears  confessions, 
of  course,  in  the  Church,  in  the  usual  way.  But  that 
is  not  the  same  thing  as  the  monks,  surely,  surely, 
Madame  sees  that? 

Lady  Betty  [shaking  her  head].  I  don't  under- 
stand you  [looking  at  her  with  large  open  eyes']. 
Not  in  the  very  least. 

Jeanne  [at  length  realizes  a  part  of  her  visitor's 
innocence  and  draws  nearer  to  her  confidentially]. 
Mais,  ma  bonne  dame.  It  is  clear,  isn't  it?  The 
monks  were  all  young,  strong  men,  who  had  nothing 
to  do  but  eat  and  hear  confessions.  Ah!  so  long 
as  they  were  here  miracle  followed  miracle;  and  no 
wonder.  Ah!  I  should  think  so  indeed.  But  the 
Cure,  my  man,  he's  sixty;  it  isn't  the  same  thing — 

and  you're  not  one  of  those 

280 


A  Miracle  and  No  Wonder 

Lady  Betty.  But  I  have  prayed  at  all  the  shrines, 
and  now  I  want  to  confess. 

Jeanne  [shrugs  her  shoulders'].  If  the  lady 
wishes  to,  of  course,  but  there  are  no  miracles  now ! 
Since  the  fathers  went  away  and  the  sisters  came, 
there  are  no  more  miracles.  That  was  to  be  ex- 
pected, eh?    Sisters  can't  work  such  miracles. 

Lady  Betty  [flushing'].  Oh!  I  don't  think  I'll 
wait,  thank  you.  Good  day.  [Passes  out  abruptly 
without  another  word.] 


281 


A  Prostitute 


A  Prostitute 

IT  had  been  a  great  evening.  We  had  spent  it 
in  an  avant-scene  at  the  Opera  in  Nice,  listen- 
ing to  The  Messaline  of  the  famous  English  mu- 
sician whose  operas  are  played  in  every  European 
capital  oftener  than  in  London.  The  composer  had 
been  "called"  by  the  public  a  dozen  times  and  had 
been  kissed  on  both  cheeks  by  the  somewhat  volumi- 
nous prima  donna  to  the  delight  of  the  audience. 
Now  he  was  giving  supper  to  three  or  four  of  us  at 
the  Casino.  It  was  the  night  of  the  entrance  of 
King  Carnival,  and  the  whole  of  the  Place  Massena 
was  thronged  with  the  gay  excited  crowd. 

The  supper  was  excellent;  but  the  eating  and 
drinking  were  only  incidentals,  the  background,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  picture.  The  passionate  music  was 
still  throbbing  in  our  blood;  the  splendid  defiance  of 
the  Gladiator's  death-song  still  rang  in  our  ears  and 
the  excitement  called  forth  the  true  qualities  of  the 
guests  to  unwonted  expression. 

A  world-famous  Belgian  novelist  told  the  astound- 

285 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

ingly  simple,  passionate  life-story  of  Aimee  Desclee, 
the  great  French  actress  of  his  youth.  Henri  Bauer, 
whose  likeness  to  the  great  Dumas  makes  him  fa- 
mous, related  some  of  his  experiences  during  the 
Commune,  and  described  the  miseries  he  had  under- 
gone as  a  convict  in  the  French  penal  settlements 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world.  "Assez  bizarre" 
was  the  novelist's  comment;  "it  is  the  convicts  and 
criminals  to-day  who  are  steering  humanity,  and 
molding  the  society  of  the  future." 

But  neither  M 's  story,  nor  Bauer's  experi- 
ences made  such  an  impression  as  a  very  simple 
episode  recounted  by  a  Russian-Pole,  a  M.  Rhiman- 
ski.  The  incident  is  like  a  burr  in  my  memory  and 
refuses  to  be  dislodged,  and  I  still  ask  myself  whether 
it  was  the  narrator  and  his  way  of  telling  the  story, 
or  the  story  itself,  which  turned  for  me  a  mere  oc- 
currence into  a  sort  of  event. 

Rhimanski,  I  had  been  told,  was  a  superb  'cellist, 
and  as  soon  as  he  began  to  speak  one  noticed  that 
his  artistry  was  not  limited  to  music.  In  manner  he 
was  reserved  and  quiet — almost  subdued;  in  person, 
unremarkable ;  just  over  middle  height,  loosely  made, 
and  slight,  with  ordinary  brown  hair,  mustaches,  and 
beard,  a  low  forehead,  Calmuck  nose  and  gray  eyes. 
The  brown  mustache  did  not  prevent  one  seeing  that 
286 


A  Prostitute 

the  lips  were  sensitive  and  finely  cut;  a  deep  furrow 
running  down  the  forehead  lent  a  certain  look  of 
age  or  thought  to  the  face.  A  man  of  thirty-five 
or  so,  whose  attractions  were  not  on  the  surface.  I 
should  never  have  noticed  him  were  it  not  for  his 
story,  and  that  was  brought  in  quite  naturally;  but 
he  told  it  with  the  brevity  and  suggestion  of  a 
master. 

Bauer's  experiences,  I  remember,  had  been  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance  of  a  party  of  noceurs  who 
seated  themselves  at  the  next  table  to  us — two  or 
three  young  rastas  with  some  gay  ladies  from 
Monte  Carlo  whose  pictures  were  in  every  shop 
window.  Bauer  stopped  short,  and  the  conversa- 
tion naturally  turned  to  the  oldest  of  the  professions. 
Interest  in  it  was  shown  by  the  novelist,  good- 
humored  toleration  by  Bauer,  when  Rhimanski  sud- 
denly took  up  the  ball : 

"Why  don't  you  write  an  opera  about  it?"  he 
questioned  de  Lara;  "nothing  has  been  done  yet, 
nothing,  and  it  is  the  most  enticing,  absorbing  theme. 
In  his  Maison  des  Morts  Dostoievsky  has  a  curious 
page  about  the  dignity  of  the  convicts  in  Siberia — 
the  'unfortunates'  as  the  inhabitants  call  them.  The 
contempt  of  others,  he  declares,  increases  the  vanity 
and  self-assertion   of  the   outcasts.     That  side  of 

287 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

prostitution,  too,  should  be  studied.  .  .  „  Then 
there  is  the  whole  terrible  education  to  be  pictured, 
the  rose  dreams  and  facile  high  enthusiasms  of  the 
girl,  all  blotted  out  by  the  knowledge  of  the  brute, 
man:  the  drama  of  desertion  and  abuse,  the  tragedy 
of  the  street  and  the  sewer, — the  massacre  of  the 
innocent.  What  an  opera  to  write,  what  a 
Bible!  .  .  . 

"I  was  in  Paris  as  a  student  ten  or  fifteen  years 
ago,  very  poor,  living  the  usual  life.  Very  much  in 
love  with  my  little  friend  .  .  .  devoted  to  her  in 
truth.  .  .  .  The  other  day  coming  out  of  the  opera 
— I  play  at  the  Opera  Comique — a  friend  took  me 
to  supper  at  Durands.  While  we  were  talking  a 
lady  came  in,  a  lady  with  her  bonne.  She  had  a  cup 
of  chocolate.  I  felt  that  I  knew  her,  and  yet  I  was 
uncertain;  I  was  puzzled  by  her  face;  it  was  distin- 
guished looking;  but  I  could  not  be  sure.  As  she  got 
up  to  go  I  saw  that  she  moved  well,  carried  her  head 
— a  little  proudly;  in  a  flash  I  was  sure  and  had  gone 
over  to  her: 

"  'Surely  I'm  not  mistaken,  Madam,  you  are 
Marie?' 

"  'Yes,'  she  returned  quietly,  'I  knew  you  at  once.' 

"I  was  delighted:  'When  can  I  see  you?'  She 
seemed  cold  and  not  agreeably  surprised  as  I  had 
288 


A  Prostitute 

expected.  But  I  persisted;  I  was  overjoyed  to  see 
her;  she  was  part  of  my  lost  youth.  ...  I  went 
out  with  her  and  found  to  my  astonishment  that 
she  had  an  automobile  at  the  door. 

11  'My  chief  pleasure,'  she  said  deprecatingly,  'I 
live  at  Auteuil.  Paris  deafens  me,  and  I  love  the 
Bois,  and  the  environs  of  Paris,  the  drives,  the  trees 
and  the  river.'  .  .  . 

'You  must  come  to  lunch  with  me,'  I  cried,  'I 
must  have  a  talk  with  you.  I  missed  you  so  dread- 
fully for  years  and  years,  and  have  thought  of  you 
so  often.' 

'You  left  me,'  she  said,  'because  you  said  your 
mother  was  dying.' 

"I  was  astonished  by  something  sarcastic  in  her 
tone. 

'It  was  true,'  I  said.  'Her  illness  called  me 
back  to  Russia;  my  mother  was  nearly  a  year  dying. 
That's  how  I  lost  sight  of  you.  I  could  not  think 
of  even  you  in  her  suffering/ 

"  'Oh,'  she  said,  as  if  half  convinced.  'I  thought 
it  an  excuse.' 

'How  could  you?'  I  exclaimed.     'Does  one  in- 
vent excuses  when  one  is  in  love?' 
"Her  face  grew  cold. 

'When  I   returned  to   France,'   I  went  on,   'I 

289 


««  n 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

hunted  for  you  everywhere,  but  could  not  find  you. 
I  had  a  little  money  and  was  so  eager  to  share  it 
with  you.' 

"  'You  still  play  the  'cello?'  she  asked  with  polite 
indifference. 

"  'Yes,  yes,'  I  cried,  'I'm  now  the  first  'cellist  at 
the  opera.  But  losing  you  took  away  the  brightness 
of  life  for  me.  My  youth  seemed  to  die  when  I 
lost  you.  My  mother  and  my  first  love  went  to- 
gether. It  sounds  sentimental,  but  I  cannot  help 
it:  it  is  true.  .  .  .  How  could  you  have  believed 
that  I  invented  excuses  to  explain  leaving  you?' 

"She  lifted  her  eyebrows  to  me  slowly.  It  was  an 
old  gesture  of  hers.  Her  eyes  were  very  fine,  nut- 
brown  and  long;  she  used  to  lift  her  eyelids  as  if 
they  were   tired,    slowly  unveiling  the   great   eyes. 

"  'If  you  knew  the  lies  men  tell  us,'  she  said. 

11  'You  are  happy?'  I  asked.  'You  have  suc- 
ceeded?' 

"  'Oh,  yes,'  she  replied  carelessly,  'I  too,  was 
wise  in  time;  one  must  be  reasonable.  'Tis  in  this 
world  we  live,  and  after  we  have  been  used  by 
men,  we  learn  to  use  them.' 

"  'You  must  not  be  bitter,'  I  said.  'Come  to- 
morrow, and  we  will  have  a  feast.     Come.' 

"She  yielded  to  my  eagerness;  said  she  would  pick 
290 


A  Prostitute 

me  up  on  the  morrow  at  the  corner  of  the  Boule- 
vard and  the  Rue  Royale  where  I  promised  to  be 
at  twelve  o'clock. 

11  'I  must  go  now,'  she  went  on,  'my  bonne  will 
be  astonished.  I  never  speak  to  strangers,'  and  she 
glanced  at  the  automobile  where  the  bonne  was 
fidgetting — a  little  impatiently,  I  thought.  What 
could  I  do  but  thank  her  and  take  her  to  the  car- 
riage. It  slid  round  the  corner  and  vanished,  and 
I  was  left  staring  at  the  church  of  the  Madeleine 
opposite,  and  the  trees  outlined  against  the  solemn 
spaces  of  the  sky.  .  .  . 

"I  had  not  recognized  her  at  once,  and  yet  she 
had  not  altered  much.  Fancy  not  knowing  Marie, 
with  whom  I  had  had  such  joyous  days  and  nights. 
She  had  grown  strangely  dignified  and  quiet.  How 
gay  she  used  to  be;  interested  in  everything  and  in- 
teresting. I  tried  to  call  it  all  back  again;  but  the 
gorgeous  life  was  gone;  it  belonged  to  the  past,  it 
was  all  dead  like  a  long  disused  room  where  the 
dust  lies  thick.   .  .  . 

"Next  day  I  was  at  the  appointed  place  at  the 
exact  moment,  and  almost  immediately  she  drove  up 
in  her  automobile.  She  looked  more  like  the  old 
Marie:  there  was  a  smile  on  her  face. 

11  'You  are  punctual,  I  see,'  she  said.     'Won't  you 

291 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

have  a  turn  before  lunch?     It  is  only  just  mid- 
day, and  I  seldom  lunch  till  half-past  twelve.' 

"It  was  last  May;  the  chestnuts  were  just  coming 
out  in  the  Avenue  and  in  the  Bois.  We  whirled 
along  the  white  road  and  past  the  great  arch,  which 
always  recalls  Napoleon  to  us  Russians,  and  I 
learned  something  of  Marie's  later  history.  She 
was  always  articulate,  what  you  call  expansive,  and 
her  frankness  used  to  please  me  as  much  as  her 
gaiety,  for  I  was  always  brooding  and  melancholy. 

"She  had  met  a  man  of  sixty,  it  appeared,  and 
had  lived  with  him  for  eight  or  ten  years.  He 
was  disillusioned,  she  said,  yet  kind  at  bottom;  the 
sort  of  man  one  thinks  in  youth  very  common,  who 
is  rarer  than  a  perfect  black  pearl. 

"  'He  died  a  year  or  so  ago,  and  left  me  enough 
to  keep  me  in  ease,  so  I  take  pleasure  in  going  to 
the  theater  and  opera,  and  coming  back  to  the 
house  which  he  bought  for  me.  You  see  I  have  a 
little  girl,  a  younger  Marie  .  .  .'  and  she  half- 
smiled  again.  .  .  . 

"It  all  seemed  pathetic  to  me,  I  don't  know  why: 
something  transitory  in  it  all  and  faded  like  an 
old  portrait  done  in  tapestry.  .  .  . 

"When  we  turned  she  asked: 

"'Where  shall  we  lunch?' 
292 


A  Prostitute 


«i  <i 


'You  don't  think  I  have  forgotten  your  taste, 
I  cried.     'Let  us  go  to  that  big  brasserie  on  the 
Boulevard,  where  you  get  the  best  beer  in  Paris.' 

"  'Beer?'  she  replied,  'I  detest  it:  I  cannot  drink 
it,  it  makes  me  ill;  I  never  could  stand  the  stuff.' 

"  'There  must  be  some  mistake,'  I  replied.  'You 
always  used  to  drink  beer.  You  said  you  liked  it 
better  than  anything.  Don't  you  remember?  We 
used  always  to  go  to  the  brasserie  at  the  corner. 
You  cannot  have  forgotten  the  suppers  of  museau 
de  boeuf  and  beer — you  loved  it  all.' 

"  'I  remember,'  she  said,  and  a  half  smile  stole 
over  her  face,  and  the  heavy  waxen  eyelids  drew 
up,  'I  remember;  but  if  you  please,  you  will  give 
me  wine  now.    I  prefer  wine.' 

"  'As  you  like,'  I  replied,  a  little  disappointed. 
'Shall  we  go  to  Durands?  Though  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  will  get  museau  de  boeuf  at  Durands.' 
T  don't  like  museau  de  boeuf  I  she  pouted. 
'Really?'  I  cried,  and  I  could  not  get  over  the 
wonder,  but  I  followed  her  lead  and  at  Durands 
ordered  what  she  wanted — the  ordinary  conven- 
tional lunch,  a  little  sole,  the  plat  du  jour,  and  a 
bottle  of  sound  light  claret. 

"We  talked  of  a  thousand  things,  recalled  a  thou- 
sand memories:  in  an  hour  she  had  become  as  gay 

293 


"'] 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

and  vivacious  as  the  Marie  I  had  loved  so  pas- 
sionately. 

"  Tell  me,'  I  said  at  last,  searching  still  for  the 
key  of  the  mystery,  'why  you  smiled  when  I  re- 
called your  old  liking  for  museau  de  bceuf  and 
beer?' 

"  'Haven't  you  guessed?'  she  asked,  'I  never  liked 
either  of  them.    I  hate  them.' 

"Astonishment  was  still  upon  me;  she  laughed 
again  a  little. 

"  'I  knew  you  were  not  rich  in  those  days,  my 
friend,'  she  said,  touching  my  arm  lightly  with  her 
fan,  'so  I  pretended  to  like  museau  de  bceuf  and 
beer,  because  they  were  cheap.  ...  I  cared  for 
you,  you  see  .  .  .'  she  added  gravely. 

"I  was  struck  dumb.  .  .  ." 

Rhimanski  stopped  speaking.  His  long  fingers 
played  with  his  wine  glass;  while  his  eyes  stared 
into  the  noisy  white  square  unseeing. 

After  a  pause  de  Lara  said:  "Yet  many  good 
people  would  be  ashamed  to  speak  to  Marie;  they 
would  call  her  a  light  woman,  a  prostitute.  .  . 

"What  wonderful  creatures  Frenchwomen  are!" 

cried  the   novelist.     "Such   relations  between  men 

and  women  in  France  are  often  almost  perfect;  no 

coarseness  in  them,  nothing  like  your  hideous  Picca- 

294 


A  Prostitute 

dilly  Circus,  your  brutal  prostitution.  Here  even 
viciousness  is  not  gross." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  the  Englishman 
slowly.  "That  doesn't  seem  to  me  the  true  moral 
of  the  story;  indeed,  properly  considered,  the  true 
moral  seems  to  me  very  different.  It  seems  to 
show  not  the  superiority  but  the  inferiority  of 
Frenchmen." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  Belgian.  "That 
is  the  wildest  paradox  I  ever  heard." 

"Much  more  than  a  paradox,"  said  Henri  Bauer, 
"it  is  ridiculously  absurd." 

"Come,"  said  de  Lara,  "won't  you  explain?" 

"I  can  perhaps  explain,"  said  the  Englishman,  "in 
terms  of  art,  though  I  should  despair  of  trying  to 
explain  ethically.  I  think  Frenchmen  are  quicker 
to  see  esthetic  reasonings." 

"I  don't  care  how  you  do  it,"  said  the  French 
novelist,  "to  attempt  to  justify  such  a  paradox  will 
be  amusing." 

"Suppose  you  went  into  a  house,"  began  the  Eng- 
lishman, "and  found  all  along  the  walls  copies  of 
the  finest  pictures  in  the  world,  good  copies,  ex- 
cellent copies,  let  us  say.  Let  us  even  go  further 
still  and  say  that  there  is  really  taste  shown  in 
the  picking  of  the  masterpieces.     Would  you  think 

295 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

the  man  a  critic  of  art,  a  connoisseur  of  the  beauti- 
ful? You  would  almost  admit,  wouldn't  you,  that 
a  man  who  had  such  copies  of  masterpieces  had 
no  real  sense  of  what  art  was?  For  consider,  the 
very  thing  that  the  copy  has  not  got  is  the  pecu- 
liarity that  makes  the  great  picture ;  the  soul  of  the 
masterpiece  is  lacking.  All  the  rest  is  there.  The 
imitation  is  superb  if  you  please,  but  the  soul  is 
not  there,  and  it  is  the  soul  you  love  in  the  master- 
piece." 

"That  is  all  right,"  said  Bauer,  "but  I  don't  see 
any  application;  I  see  no  similarity  even  in  the  two 
cases." 

"A  moment,"  replied  the  Englishman.  "You  say 
you  have  copies  of  love  on  all  hands  in  France 
that  are  almost  as  good  as  the  real  thing.  You 
say  that  the  goodness  of  the  copy  proves  your  high 
civilization.  I  say  it  proves  your  low  appreciation. 
If  you  knew  what  love  was,  the  master-virtue  of 
love,  you  wouldn't  have  an  imitation  at  any  price; 
the  imitation  is  always  without  the  soul  of  the  mas- 
terpiece, and  it  is  the  soul  you  want,  the  highest 
reach  of  it. 

"In  England  and  in  America,  in  Germany  and  in 
Russia  there  is  more  or  less  the  soul  of  love,  and 
copies  of  it  are  disdained,  and  even  the  best  of 
296 


A  Prostitute 

them  not  much  appreciated:  but  in  France  and  in 
Japan,  where  you  have  not  got  the  real  thing,  where 
the  passion  of  love  itself  is  almost  unknown,  the 
imitation  is  excellent  and  you  are  content  with  first- 
rate  copies. 

"The  English  have  the  ideal,  and  alas!  the  Pic- 
cadilly Circus  also;  but  the  Piccadilly  Circus  prop- 
erly considered  is  a  proof  that  we  do  know  what 
the  ideal  means." 

"A  superb  argument,"  said  the  Belgian  novelist, 
"but  still  I  think  it  a  paradox." 

"There  is  no  doubt  something  in  what  you  say," 
replied  de  Lara,  "but  you  must  admit  that  Marie 
at  any  rate  had  some  of  the  essence  of  true  love 
in  her,  at  least  the  noble  self-sacrifice  of  it." 

"Surely,"  replied  the  Englishman.  "The  es- 
sence of  true  love  may  be  found  in  illegitimate 
unions.  I  am  not  contending  that  the  master  virtue 
has  to  be  blessed  in  church." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  cried  Rhimanski,  "that  it  is 
the  self-sacrifice  that  redeems  and  ennobles  love." 


297 


a 


The  Kiss 


5) 


"The  Kiss" 
DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

Mrs.  Jeremiah  Hudson  (Phyllis). 

Mr.  Jeremiah  Hudson. 

Lieutenant  Dick  Braithwaite  (cousin  to 
Mrs.  Hudson) . 

Dr.  William  Hudson  (his  brother). 

The  scene  opens  in  a  modern  London  drawing- 
room.  The  four  persons  are  standing  about  talking 
after  dinner:  coffee  cups  on  the  small  table  before 
the  hostess:  the  Lieutenant  is  smoking  a  cigarette. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  I  have  been  trying  to  get 
Phyllis  to  come  to  the  theater  to-morrow  night. 
Jimmy  Welch  is  ripping  in  the  new  play.  I  laughed 
till  I  ached  over  it. 

Dr.  Hudson.     What's  it  about? 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  It's  from  the  French :  the 
usual  sort  of  French  farce :  bridegroom  with  entan- 
glement: father-in-law  with  entanglement:  the  two 
pairs  get  all  mixed  up :  really  great  fun !  Shall  I 
get  a  box  and  we'll  all  go? 

301 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Mr.  Hudson.  Not  for  me,  thanks,  but  perhaps 
Phyllis  would  like  it:  persuade  her. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite  [turning  to  hostess~\.  Do 
come !  It  is  only  nonsense,  but  you  will  have  to 
laugh;  it'll  take  you  out  of  yourself. 

[As  he  goes  on  talking  to  his  hostess,  Mr.  Hud- 
son and  Dr.  Hudson  come  down  to  the  front,  right. ~\ 

Dr.  Hudson.  You  wanted  to  see  me,  and  I 
rather  wanted  a  talk  with  you. 

Mr.  Hudson.  Go  ahead  with  your  business. 
What  is  it? 

Dr.  Hudson.  I  got  an  anonymous  letter  the 
other  day.     It  annoyed  me. 

Mr.  Hudson  [shrugging  his  shoulders'].  No  sen- 
sible person  pays  any  attention  to  those  things. 

Dr.  Hudson.  My  dear  Jerry,  everybody  pays  at- 
tention to  them. 

Mr.  Hudson.     I  don't. 

Dr.  Hudson.     I  think  you  ought  to. 

Mr.  Hudson.  What!  Was  your  anonymous  let- 
ter about  me? 

Dr.  Hudson.  No;  but  it  had  a  nasty  hint  about 
— [and  he  nods  toward  Mrs.  Hudson  and  Lieut. 
Braithwaite'] . 

Mr.    Hudson     [shrugs    his    shoulders].      Silly! 
Some  slighted,  spiteful  ass ! 
302 


"The  Kiss" 

Dr.  Hudson.  No,  Jerry,  they  are  not  so  silly. 
You  are  away  all  day  at  business,  and  ever  since 
he  came  home  wounded,  Braithwaite  has  been  taking 
Phyllis  here,  there  and  everywhere,  and  she's  a  very 
pretty  woman,  and  looks  younger  even  than  she  is. 

Mr.  Hudson  [looking  at  his  brother].  You  want 
to  tell  me  that  I  am  a  good  deal  older  than  Phyllis, 
and  I'm  too  tired  after  all  day  in  the  Courts  to  go 
out  with  her  every  evening.  I  know  all  that;  but  I 
know  Phyllis,  too;  I  love  her,  and  I'm  not  fright- 
ened. 

Dr.  Hudson.  That's  just  it,  Jerry;  husbands 
never  are  frightened,  even  when  they  have  good 
reason  to  be. 

Mr.  Hudson.  Nonsense,  Will.  Phyllis  tells  me 
what  Braithwaite  says  to  her;  how  he  flirts.  No; 
there's  no  danger  signal  even.  A  man  doesn't  lose 
the  affection  of  a  woman  unless  he  deserves  to  by 
neglecting  her,  and  I  prize  Phyllis  now  more  than  I 
did  ten  years  ago.  Make  your  mind  easy,  I  shall 
scent  danger  afar  off. 

Dr.  Hudson.  Oh!  all  right!  If  you  won't  be 
warned,  you  won't.  Willful  man —  [He  turns 
away  ] . 

Mr.  Hudson  [laying  his  hand  on  his  arm].  I 
want  a  word  with  you  and  my  business  is  much  more 

303 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

serious  [the  brothers  look  at  each  other].  Do  I 
look  all  right? 

Dr.  Hudson  [scrutinizing  him~\.  Yes,  why?  Is 
there  anything  the  matter? 

Mr.  Hudson.  Do  you  remember  that  little  Pom, 
Rex,  my  wife  had?  [The  doctor  nods.]  It  got 
old,  you  know,  white  about  the  muzzle,  rheumatic 
and  snappy.  I  persuaded  Phyllis  that  it  should  be 
put  out  of  its  pain,  and  took  it  to  the  chemist.  A 
drop  of  prussic  acid  on  its  tongue  and  it  was  all  over. 
Poor  little  beast! 

Dr.  Hudson.  Of  course,  I  remember  perfectly, 
but  what  of  that?     That's  months  ago. 

Mr.  Hudson.     I  know — four  months  ago. 

Dr.  Hudson.     Well,  what  of  it? 

Mr.  Hudson.  Some  time  afterward,  it  must 
have  been  nearly  two  months,  I  began  to  feel  funny. 
I  can't  describe  it;  the  French  word  malaise  comes 
nearest  it — our  English  "out  of  sorts !"  All  vague, 
don't  you  know,  but  very  uncomfortable.  Luckily 
it  was  the  summer;  I  began  to  ride  again,  gave  my- 
self much  more  exercise,  took  my  work  easier,  and 
for  a  little  while  I  seemed  to  get  better.  Lately  I've 
got  worse. 

Dr.  Hudson.     Worse?    What  do  you  mean? 

Mr.  Hudson.     I  had  a  dreadful  attack  yesterday. 

3°4 


"The  Kiss" 

Mouth  dry;  felt  as  if  I  were  choking;  strangely  ner- 
vous, bathed  in  perspiration.     Oh!  I  get  quirks. 

Dr.  Hudson.     The  dog  didn't  bite  you,  did  it? 

Mr.  Hudson  [shakes  his  head].    No. 

Dr.  Hudson.     Then  it's  all  right.     It's  all  fancy! 

Mr.  Hudson.  I  seem  to  remember  I  had  a 
scratch  on  my  finger,  but  I  couldn't  be  sure.  But  it 
isn't  fancy,  Will.  [Puts  his  hand  across  his  eyes.] 
I'm  certain  of  that.     I  wish  to  God  it  was! 

Dr.  Hudson.  I  can  take  some  of  your  blood  and 
have  it  analyzed,  but  I  think  you  will  find  it's  all 
right. 

Mr.  Hudson.  All  wrong.  Don't  make  any  mis- 
take, Will.  I'm  sure  or  I  wouldn't  have  bothered 
anyone.  You  know  I  am  not  fanciful.  I  never  felt 
so  ill.  I've  read  all  the  books  about  it  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  and  there's  no  doubt  I  had  to 
fight  yesterday  to  keep  control  of  myself;  it's  dread- 
ful to  feel  that  one  can  lose  hold  of  oneself  and  slip, 
slip  into — what  an  awful  torture  chamber — God! 
I'm  not  afraid  of  death;  but  madness  scares  me. 

Dr.  Hudson.     What  do  you  want  me  to  do? 

Mr.  Hudson.  I  must  go  to  the  Pasteur  Institute 
in  Paris  at  once  without  alarming  my  wife.  You 
must  invent  some  excuse. 

Dr.  Hudson.     Now,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment? 

305 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Mr.  Hudson.  If  possible  now,  or  to-morrow 
morning  by  letter.  But  it  oughtn't  be  delayed.  I 
have  had  one  of  those  awful  throat  spasms  again 
this  afternoon. 

Dr.  Hudson.  Good  God!  that's  bad!  Would 
it  do  if  I  said  that  I  wanted  you  to  proceed  in  the 
case  of  the  Comtesse  de  Gaudier,  who  owes  me  ten 
thousand  francs? 

Mr.  Hudson.  That  would  do,  I  think.  But  per- 
haps you  had  better  write  it  to  me  as  well;  it'll  carry 
greater  conviction,  and  I  can  say  now  that  you  want 
me  to  go,  and  that  I  don't  want  to.  That'll  get  my 
wife  accustomed  to  the  idea  I  may  have  to  go.  Send 
in  the  letter  by  hand  in  the  morning.  And  now,  no 
sign. 

Dr.  Hudson.  Take  some  bromidia  to-night  and 
quiet  your  nerves. 

Mr.  Hudson.  You  unbelieving  Christian !  [Aloud, 
turning  toward  his  wife  and  the  Lieutenant.]  I 
don't  want  to  leave  London  now,  even  for  three  or 
four  days. 

Mrs.  Hudson.  Why?  Does  Will  want  you  to 
go  away? 

Mr.  Hudson.      [Nods  reflectingly.] 

Dr.  Hudson.  Phyllis,  I  want  him  to  help  me  to 
get  that  money  in  Paris  that's  owing  to  me :  I  want 
306 


"The  Kiss" 

him  to  come  with  me,  because  he'll  put  me  on  to  the 
best  procedure  there,  and  he'll  see  the  lawyer  at  the 
Embassy,  and  get  everything  in  order. 

Mrs.  Hudson.  Why  not,  Jerry?  A  little 
change  will  do  you  good  [moving  toward  him]. 

Dr.  Hudson  [turning  to  Mr.  Hudson'].  There 
you  are,  you  see,  Phyllis  agrees  with  me. 

Mrs.  Hudson  [with  conviction].  Jerry's  run 
down  or  overtired,  or  something.  He  has  not  been 
himself  for — oh,  ever  so  long — more  than  three 
months.  He's  got  thinner,  too,  and  to-day  he  looks 
bad. 

Dr.  Hudson  [with  forced  laughter].  You  see, 
Jerry,  you're  detected.  I  told  him  to  take  some  bro- 
midia  to-night.  He's  overworked,  and  his  nerves 
are  shaky.  A  little  trip  to  Paris,  a  pleasant  change 
will  do  him  all  the  good  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Hudson.  There's  no  pleasure  for  me  with- 
out Phyllis,  and  I  don't  want  to  disturb  you  [to  his 
wife]. 

Mrs.  Hudson.  I  think  the  trip  would  do  you 
good,  Jerry.  You  know  you  love  the  sea,  and  I  hate 
that  crossing;  it's  only  an  hour,  but  it  always  makes 
me  ill  for  a  week.  [Appealing  to  the  room.]  I  am 
the  worst  sailor  in  the  world.  I  get  ill  when  I  see 
boats  rocking  about  on  the  sea :  a  wretched  feeling. 

307 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Dr.  Hudson  [to  his  brother].  Make  up  your 
mind  to  come  to-morrow,  Jerry. 

Mr.  Hudson.  No,  no.  I  have  business,  Will;  I 
can't  leave  like  that. 

Phyllis.  But,  Jerry,  you  told  me  the  other  day 
that  you  haven't  so  much  to  do  now;  you  can  get 
away  easily.  Do  go  if  you  can.  Why  not  to- 
morrow? 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  A  trip  to  Paris  will  be  the 
very  thing  for  you,  old  man.  A  week  there  will  buck 
you  up  no  end.  It's  like  a  night  out,  don't  you  know. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

Mr.  Hudson.  Well,  we  needn't  decide  at  once. 
There's  no  hurry. 

Dr.  Hudson.  Oh,  yes  there  is.  There  is  always 
a  hurry  to  get  money,  and  always  a  hurry,  too,  to 
have  things  settled.     Make  up  your  mind,  Jerry. 

Mr.  Hudson.  I'll  think  it  over  and  see  what  can 
be  done. 

Mrs.  Hudson.     I  think  you  ought  to  go,  Jerry. 

Dr.  Hudson.     Now,  say  you'll  come. 

Mr.  Hudson.  I'll  oblige  all  right  if  everyone 
wants  to  get  rid  of  me. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  Lucky  dog.  A  trip  to  Paris. 
Ha!  Ha! 

[Curtain] 
308 


"The  Kiss" 

SCENE    II 

A  month  later.  Lieut.  Braithwaite  and  Dr.  Hud- 
son in  drawing-room  together. 

Dr.  Hudson.     Time  they  were  here. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  I  don't  know  why  Phyllis  in- 
sisted on  going  to  Dover  to  meet  him;  he  could  have 
traveled  up  all  right  alone.  [Walking  about. ,]  I 
believe  the  whole  thing  has  been  nerves.  I  remem- 
ber  

[The  door  opens  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hudson  come 
in.     The  Doctor  hurries  toward  the  patient. ~\ 

Dr.  Hudson  [after  the  usual  greetings'].  Well, 
you  are  looking  all  right,  Jerry,  I  am  glad  to  see.  I 
have  had  the  best  news,  too,  from  the  Pasteur  peo- 
ple; they  assure  me  you  are  cured.  You  feel  all 
right,  don't  you? 

Mr.  Hudson  [looking  at  him].  I  shall  never 
feel  all  right  again,  Will.  All  the  confidence  has 
been  knocked  out  of  me.  I  shall  never  feel  sure  of 
anything  again  in  this  shifty  world! 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  That's  all  nerves.  I  know 
the  feeling,  but  you'll  get  over  that. 

Mr.  Hudson  [to  his  brother].  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
walking  on  ice  that  may  give  way  at  any  moment  and 
let  me  into  the  icy  current.    The  funk  has  had  one 

3°9 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

good  result,  I  think;  it  has  made  me  more  consider- 
ate.   I  don't  judge  and  condemn  others  as  I  used  to. 

Dr.  Hudson.  The  treatment  was  not  painful  in 
Paris,  was  it? 

Mr.  Hudson.  Oh,  no !  but  pain  is  nothing.  It  is 
the  dreadful  doubt  of  one's  own  sanity.  The  reali- 
zation that  reason  is  not  under  one's  control  and  at 
any  moment  one  may  be — mad.  It's  dreadful. 
[Pulls  himself  together.]  Very  interesting  things 
one  learns  at  the  Institute.  You  know  the  infection 
is  conveyed  through  saliva  if  there  is  any  abrasion 
of  the  skin.  It  appears  we  have  three  skins  on  our 
body;  only  two  on  our  lips.  Well,  the  belief  is  now 
that  this  poison  is  strong  enough  to  come  through 
the  skin  of  the  lips  without  abrasion.  I  must  have 
got  the  dog's  saliva  on  my  lip  in  some  way.  I  suppose 
without  thinking  I  must  have  put  my  hand  to  my 
mouth;  for  they  have  established  the  fact  that  it 
didn't  come  through  the  hand.  Awful  what  the  re- 
sult of  a  kiss  might  be!  Worse  than  the  kiss  of 
Judas ! 

Mrs.  Hudson  [appealingly].  Come,  Jerry,  I 
won't  have  you  thinking  of  such  things,  or  talking 
of  them;  talking  even  is  bad,  it  makes  you  realize 
them;  put  them  all  out  of  your  mind. 

Dr.  Hudson.  She  is  quite  right,  you  know,  Jerry. 
310 


"The  Kiss" 

Forget  the  experience;  don't  think  of  it  again;  put 
it  resolutely  away  from  you.     Live  in  the  present. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  It  is  all  nerves,  don't  you 
know.  I'm  sure  it  is  nerves.  I  remember  once  in 
camp  near  Rawul  Pindi  the  cholera  was  pretty  bad. 
I  got  nursing  the  fellows  and  reading  all  about  it, 
and  one  day  I  got  all  the  symptoms;  had  to  go  to 
bed,  was  damn  bad.  Suddenly  news  came  of  a  raid 
— my  chance,  don't  you  know.  I  got  up  and  rushed 
into  my  clothes  and  started  out — rode  all  night. 
Next  morning  I  was  surprised  to  feel  myself  as  fit  as 
I  had  ever  been  in  my  life.  No  touch  of  cholera 
about  me — all  cured. 

I  told  Phyllis  when  she  wanted  to  go  to  Paris  that 
she  could  go  without  being  seasick  if  she  only  made 
up  her  mind.  When  the  ship  is  going  down,  don't 
ye  know,  it  cures  sea-sickness  at  once.  All  that  ma- 
laise yo»-talk  about  and  dread — all  mere  nerves. 
^Mr.  Hudson.  The  doctors  say  that  when  you 
are  getting  well  the  danger  of  infection  is  greatest. 
I  am  probably  more  dangerous  now  to  others  than  I 
was  two  months  ago. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite  [laughing].  Oh,  dangerous! 
You  are  as  right  as  rain,  don't  ye  know,  if  you'd  only 
make  up  your  mind. 

Mr.  Hudson.     You  think  so? 

311 


The  Veils  of  Isis 

Lieut.  Braithwaite.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  have  told 
Phyllis  so  a  hundred  times. 

Mr.  Hudson  [steps  to  him  and  taking  him  by  the 
shoulders,  thrusts  his  face  quite  close  to  his].  If 
you  are  sure,  then  kiss  me  on  the  lips. 

Lieut.  Braithwaite  [draws  back~\.  Oh,  I  say, 
don't  ye  know,  there's — there's  no  reason 

Mrs.  Hudson  [coming  forward].  So  that's  why 
you  didn't  kiss  me,  Jerry.    You  must  kiss  me  now. 

Mr.  Hudson  [puts  his  hand  on  her  head  with  in- 
finite tenderness].  No  need  to  test  you,  dear; 
none. 


312 


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